Mass Effect: Newton's Second Law
by Raven Studios
Summary: Commander Jalissa A. Shepard is back. Now, coping with the fallout of her own death and caught in an unpleasant alliance of necessity, she and her crew scramble to stop the Collectors. Mass Effect 2 as told through 1000-word vignettes. (Cover images all belong to Bioware. As with Mass Effect itself, I'm just borrowing them and giving credit where it's due.)
1. Introduction

Long-Winded Opening Author's Notes:

Here we are again! For those of you who are new, I recommend going back to read 'Newton's First Law' at the very least, so you don't get confused. 'Cause and Effect' (this Shepard's origin story) will probably help clarify a few minor characters who will likely crop up, but it isn't strictly necessary.

You probably remember the premise of these vignettes, but I'll mention it in brief (for the full explanation, see NFL). These are 1000-word snapshots of the events of Mass Effect 2.

Special thanks to the Mass Effect Wiki and to Bioware, who owns Mass Effect—this disclaimer applies to any and all chapters of this work. And extra special thanks to my fantastic beta Saberlin, who has returned to work on this project. Thanks again, and I appreciate all your efforts.

One more thing: the first few chapters occur around Newton's First Law's chapter 'Dead', so be aware of the chronological overlap.

Happy reading,

~Raven Studios

-J-

-**MASS EFFECT: NEWTON'S SECOND LAW**-

_Newton's Second Law states that an object's acceleration is directly proportional to the object's net force and inversely proportional to the object's mass._

-J-

Commander Shepard and Lieutenant Alenko sat in the cargo bay of the _SSV Normandy_, sweaty, irritable, and frustrated.

The garage team securely clamped the Mako into place after another mission that turned up dirt, dust, and nothing remotely interesting. The two officers frowned into their gear lockers, preparing to armor down.

_What_ were the politicos thinking? Shepard could not bring herself to believe they _were_ thinking, and had to quell the rising worry that the attack by Sovereign, Saren, and the geth had changed _nothing_ in the long run.

She was still a case of insanity waiting to happen.

She was Chicken Little, and the sky really was falling.

How many times did she have to be _right _before the powers-that-be listened? She thought she had exercised incredible diplomacy last time she saw anyone of importance, but apparently it was just not enough to convince people of a clear and present galactic threat.

As soon as Shepard was fit for duty she and her crew were kicked off the Citadel. People seemed to think being in the hospital constituted a 'job well done' break for weary soldiers.

Pressly was furious at being sent after _geth_. Adams was rolling his eyes at the prospect. Shepard was angry on behalf of her crew, not because they were chasing non-existent cells of geth, but because there was no time for anyone to really catch their breaths.

No time allotted for her crewmen to see their families.

Maybe the interim leadership on the Citadel was afraid Shepard the Trouble Magnet would finish what Sovereign started and take out the rest of the station.

Everything was irritability and frustration, neither of which had nothing to do with the sand in her boots. The irritability and the frustration had two very different, very distinct causes.

Shepard could not complain, knowing what was out there, making their sinister way towards civilization, but still...

A little downtime with the man she loved…was that so much to ask? Really? Because 'on duty' meant _on duty_, and 'on station' meant conducting themselves as professionals; personal entanglements were one hundred percent off the agenda.

And she missed her personal entanglement. Every inch of him.

Hence the frustration.

-J-

"This is crazy," Alenko dropped his helmet, rubbing his eyes. It _was_ crazy. The writing was _still_ on the wall, in bold, italicized letters, and people _still_ pretended they couldn't read.

Alenko cast Shepard a sidelong look, partly of concern. It was insulting they way things were going. She had supposedly saved the galaxy, yet they shunted her out of sight at the first opportunity to some place where she could not cause trouble.

There was galactic gratitude for you. Only a month since Reaper shrapnel pinned her like a butterfly, and one would think it had never happened.

Anywhere else and she would probably still be under orders for light duty only. She was tough, but not as indestructible as popular opinion portrayed her. He was one of the few to know that, firsthand. He cut this thought off abruptly, though memory insinuated itself slyly. A memory of vivid eyes looking up at him above a smile that was hard to read, accompanied by a pale hand sliding over his shoulder, through the faint corona of dark energy clinging there...

No sense aggravating an aggravating situation with sentimental things. They were soldiers, right now…which meant eyes forward, and focus on the task at hand.

"In a word," Shepard agreed with Alenko's voiced opinion, setting her shotgun in her locker, before absently touching locker that had once belonged to Williams.

There was nothing in it; it was kept empty on purpose. If the crew had their way, it would stay that way forever. There was no grave on Virmire, no body to bury. There was only a weighted coffin on Amaterasu and an empty locker on the _Normandy_.

"Whole new setup and the only ones really listening can't do much." Blast politics, Alenko mentally grumbled, blast the politicians, too. It would have been worse if Shepard had endorsed Udina. Thankfully, very hot places would hold ice skating matches with medals before Shepard did _anything_ to further Udina's career or goals.

The man was a slug, more so now than ever; dislike of Udina was like fine wine, it got stronger with time. The thought made him smile, helped nudge his mind onto neutral ground.

If Udina really was bottled up and left to ferment, the bottle would _explode_ due to a buildup of hot air produced by the contents.

-J-

Shaking her head wearily, Shepard looked around the familiarity of the garage. Home. The garage was still huge, the engines still pulsed and throbbed through the floor, the 'new' Mako was just as ugly. The love-hate relationship ran strong with the Mako. Like certain varieties of ugly dog, the thing had grown on her, though she still hated driving it.

"This really sucks, I'm starting to miss the good old days." She could not stop the wistful comment as she once more contemplated starting the process of removing her armor. The good old days…one would think she was referring to a string of picnics and get-togethers, instead of zombie-popping, geth-fragging danger and disaster.

Well. They were still geth-fragging…except there weren't any geth. Not here, at least, despite the fact that three ships had gone missing within the space of a month. Popular consensus blamed it on pirates or batarians.

Shepard was not so sure, but then again, things might really be that easy. Maybe she was simply looking for trouble, since none seemed to be forthcoming. She didn't _like _trouble, but she didn't like this monotonous non-action either.

"What, rocketing around the Traverse with a shotgun, saving colonies, ever alert for four-eyed uglies…?"

"...back of my neck, yeah. I just—"

The entire deck rocked, throwing them both forward. Shepard landed clumsily on her knees. Neither of them asked 'what was that?'

They both knew what 'that' was: it was trouble rearing its ugly head.


	2. Livid

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Shepard found that she was not afraid, and it did not surprise her. A bigger emotion was strangling fear. She was _livid_. Joker's answer to her demand of 'what the hell, Joker?' left her in no doubt: killing Sovereign hadn't been enough. This stank of machine oil and hydraulic fluid, minus the flashlight heads.

Only one species—if she could call it that—bore that description.

Damn Reapers.

The emergency beacon on the crewdeck beeped at her as she activated it, her lips curling. Reapers crawling out of the woodwork and she was stuck on a ship and couldn't fight back.

Normally, Joker would have riddled anyone threatening his lady so full of holes they could rent themselves out as a colander; the fact that the enemy wasn't dead was telling, and chilling.

Or would have been if she didn't feel livid enough to want to try tearing a Reaper apart with her bare hands.

"Shepard," Alenko came crashing into the small alcove, having stopped to check Tali. In the end, it was unnecessary: he and Shepard both saw Tali come stumbling out of the clean room, followed by Dr. Chakwas, still fiddling with the fastenings of her helmet.

Here was hoping she didn't catch anything really nasty from unpurified air…

"Distress beacon's armed." Shepard's voice came out firm, using the in-control tone that went such a long way towards keeping the soldiers who worked with her calm under pressure, but an edge of seething anger was audible to anyone who knew what to listen for.

They exchanged a look: there was no way the Alliance could get here in time to do anything more than pick up escape shuttles. They had served too long in space to think otherwise and if this was something to do with the Reapers…

Shepard gritted her teeth. Damn the Reapers! If they had their way, there wouldn't be enough of the _Normandy_ to fill a champagne glass at a Citadel Embassy function.

Then they'd turn on the escape shuttles.

"We're not going to sit around so they can find our frozen corpses." She said into the silence, as if responding to a question. "I want you to take over the evac. Get _everyone_ on the shuttles. _No_ exceptions."

Alenko shifted, but did not hesitate to respond. "Shepard, I had Joker on the wire before he stopped listening."

Shepard swore, able to read between the lines.

"He won't abandon ship. I'm not leaving either."

Shepard and Alenko rocked as the ship jerked; both automatically reached to check that gravlocks were engaged. "Has something changed?" Shepard's challenge came out cold as ice, reinforcing her original order: _everyone on the evac shuttles—no exceptions_.

The question hit Alenko like a slap, but he couldn't refute it. His own stipulation had just come back to bite him: here he was acting, out of emotion while she had already compartmentalized. It was almost frightening to think she could simply put her feelings in a box and shove them under her bed to be disentangled later.

"I need you," her tone softened, knowing the words' impact, "to oversee the evacuation, and get everyone off this heap," her voice edged with her 'go kill it' tone, a dire nuance directed at whoever was trying to destroy her ship.

Or was it just the ship? Alenko eyed Shepard, and in a brief moment understood: this was not about the ship or the lives for which she was responsible. This was an alien menace attacking her home and her family all over again. But now she wasn't a sixteen-year-old girl, and she would attack back. There was no fear, there would be no flashbacks, no moments of hesitation—just anger. Here was an attacking menace she could strike back...if less effectively than she might like.

Even as the thought flickered in his mind, he knew he had only a very basic grasp on what was going on behind the tinted visor of her helmet.

"_I_ will take care of Joker's crippled ass if I have to break him in half to do it." She elbowed past him at a jog—as fast as the gravlocks would let her move—in order to end the argument.

"Shepard." She paused, turning so she could see him out of the corner of her eyes. "Move fast."

She knew what he meant, nodded understanding, and started off, barking out curt commands that seemed to galvanize the fear straight out of her crewmen, yanking them onto a plane of functionality similar to her own.

Shepard's mind was not blank, nor was it empty, but it was full of wide open space. Even moving from the small pressurized area between the stairs from the crewdeck into the decompressed CIC did not alter the clarity, except that the notion of the _Normandy_ now being a convertible made her smile.

Above her, the planet—or moon, or whatever it was—gleamed silver-bright, but there was no visual on the attacking ship.

"All right, on your feet," Shepard barked as soon as she entered the cockpit through the barrier seal.

Sweat stood out on Joker's face, his eyes alight. Shepard finally caught her first look at the enemy.

It was not remotely like Sovereign.

"I won't abandon the _Normandy_! I can still save her."

"Not if you're a _corpse_. Up. Now." Her tone indicated clearly that if Joker protested she would drag him out of the chair and throw him into the shuttle, broken bones be damned.

Joker hesitated; Shepard took hold of his arm, ready to carry out her unspoken threat. "Okay, help me up."

A console began screaming.

Shepard grabbed Joker, maneuvered him into the evac shuttle. There was no time for finesse: she tried to ease him gently into one of the seats but knew, as she shoved the restraining bar down, that she had already damaged brittle bones.

Light caught her attention, a yellow glimmer out of the corner of her eye. Involuntarily, she turned to look…


	3. The Void

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

The plasma beam cut into the ship, knocking her back from the pod's door. She was too slow to save herself, but not too slow to hit the emergency seal-and-release. For a moment she had an upside-down view of Joker's horrified face, heard him shout for her…then the door sealed, cutting them off from one another. The module ejected, and the cockpit seemed to explode around her, throwing her back. She shouted as she struck something sharply, snapping her head back as far as helmet and air hoses would permit before flinging her out of the burning, dying carcass of the _Normandy_.

Her neck screamed, and pain ran in a fiery line down one side of her spine from the impact, but in the short term, she was safer outside the ship than in it. In the short term only, though this had yet to catch up with her. Being stuck in zero-gravity environment had always made her uneasy—it was the strange silence, except for the sound of her own labored breathing.

An attack seemed so much more different without the sounds of klaxons, of the ship protesting, of ship-grade heavy weapons. It was strange to see all the carnage, but without sound, like a horror vid on mute.

She had avoided the short term danger, but the reality, the grim reality, of her situation began to set in. According to time as sapients understood it, it took less than a few seconds. According to her own perceptions, it took several minutes.

Her body went cold, skin raising into gooseflesh as realization began to dawn on her, like a creep of chill air into a warm room. Deep down, Shepard had never gotten over her hatred of spacewalking. She hated the defiance of 'normal' spatial orientation: her _mind_ knew she was upside down and made the unpleasant fact known to the rest of her. But her eyes and other senses said 'we're all right: we're still right-side up', trying to override what the mind dictated.

She detested having to trust artificial gravity in a vacuum where she could not actually 'fall'. Gravity was a good thing, and on a planet…well, the sky prevented that horrible disorientation.

She hated feeling so tiny, helpless as a newborn kitten. Drifting in the vacuum, there were few ways to control movement, and her suit was not equipped with any of them. It only provided a sealed environment.

The stars wheeled around her as the _Normandy_ burned, minor explosions continued blossoming from as-yet uncompromised portions of the ship. Surely the core hadn't gone yet…

The strange ship continued firing on the _Normandy_—thankfully not on the escape modules. She had worried about that…and now they were falling, falling, like metallic hail onto the world below. She could not remember what it was, only that it was as diametrically opposite the last world they were on as it was possible to be.

It was not a place, by the looks of it, where sand in the boots would be a concern.

Her breathing was loud in her ears as she sucked air, her heart pounding in her chest from adrenaline. Her position was bad: either she would burn up in the atmosphere if she got caught in the planet's gravitational pull, or she would drift off into deep space where her chance of rescue dropped exponentially. The chances of her catching in the planet's orbit were extremely low.

She rotated slowly, unable to control her movements. Above her, the white-blue world of ice shone softly, painfully bright in the dark of space around it. White-blue worlds like that were always icy; as long as the escape modules stayed sealed, the crew would be all right…

…unless the strange ship sent out salvage parties, but from the way it continued doggedly punching holes in her poor ship, she suspected they were not interested in prisoners.

What kind of ship _was _that? It was so alien…

That was one upside to being out here: she was too small to see with the unaided eye. One couldn't shoot what one didn't see. Space was big, and one never really realized it until one had to search it for something. It was not like looking out a window planetside.

Her heart rate skyrocketed. A few seconds in reality, minutes within her mind. She suddenly remembered—the fact coming home to her forcibly instead of as a peripheral detail—the main theme of zeegee training, a theme repeated during weapons' training and half a dozen other training sessions: _an object in motion will stay in motion until acted on by another object_.

It was Sir Isaac Newton, the most deadly egghead in the galaxy.

Looking again, she was awfully close to the atmos—

She tried to take a deep breath, the better to try to figure out what she should do…but found herself short on air. She couldn't breathe…

_She couldn't breathe_.

Realization dawned as she caught the soft, sinister hissing that explained the phenomenon more succinctly than any word ever could. The blow she took when the cockpit burst asunder…

She had hit something and it had hit back.

She struggled and kicked, trying fruitlessly to cover the tears in her air hoses. It did no good, she could not feel the leaks, had no omnigel to slather on them to try and seal the breach.

Her lungs worked, but to no purpose as her suit slowly depressurized, suffocating her. Logic vanished as her hands gripped her throat, trying to stave off the slow experience of suffocation, as though she could force its choking grip away from her neck. A crushing band appeared around her head, more around her lungs and heart…

She never knew how long a time five minutes really was.

She never felt herself heating up as she drifted closer and closer to the planet's atmosphere before falling into it.

She was dead long before she hit the icy ground, the _Normandy_ raining down around her.


	4. Loss

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

The rescued crew of the _Normandy_ crowded together in one of the larger briefing rooms on the _SSV Keflavik_, waiting. Waiting, waiting, and waiting.

Alenko clasped his hands, knuckles digging into his forehead. Shepard had gone forward to get Joker…but they had not yet recovered his pod. With the escape shuttles so strung out, it could be hours or days before they recovered the last two crewmen.

They had to be okay—Shepard would throw Joker over her shoulder and throw him into the capsule (breaking most of the bones in his body in the process). It was not as though Joker could do more than complain if Shepard had to resort to those methods.

Frak Joker. Alenko did not often think in that direction, but he did now.

Tali was in the medbay, too. Suit rupture—they had Dr. Chakwas' assurance, though, that while the quarian was sick, she was in no danger of dying.

They'd lost Pressly and the number of dead would continue to rise until all the pods—especially one, the most important one—were found. Some twenty souls had passed, most of them sucked into the void when the ship tore open.

-J-

Word did not arrive until the next morning, during breakfast, that the last pod had finally been recovered. But something in the sterile way the announcement was delivered made Alenko's stomach fill with ice water. It felt like giving up to read into the simple statement that one or both of the missing marines were dead.

Shepard wasn't that kind of person; she couldn't be dead. All the things she'd survived so far…she was a survivor. She couldn't be dead.

Dr. Chakwas walked in several hours later, her face pale, pushing a battered-looking Joker in a wheelchair before her.

The pilot was in shock, utter shock. For a moment Alenko wondered if he even knew where he was, or who all the people looking at him were. "It's official," Dr. Chakwas' voice was low and taut.

Alenko closed his eyes. She had probably asked to be the one to deliver the bad news. Bad news like this needed to come from someone inside the fold—not some uniform they'd hardly ever met or heard of.

"Commander Shepard…didn't make it."

"No!" Tali, hoarse of voice and short on breath, got to her feet, hands splayed on the table. No one could see the wracked expression on her face, but her tone was more than eloquent. "How?"

Alenko's sense of the situation and responsibility for it began building up. He could reconstruct what had happened easily enough, especially given the cast on Joker's arm. Any other breaks could be associated with a rough landing, but Shepard would have had to grab the pilot to get him on his feet, much less get him moving.

"She never made it into the pod…" Joker's voice was almost unrecognizable. The haunted look did nothing to appease the resentment burning in Alenko's chest, nor did it quell the rising tide of ugly thoughts.

Pain began to pulse behind Alenko's eyes, then it was suddenly gone. He didn't realize it, but the pain had not vanished, it had simply moved out of his perceptual range, too large to process. It was the mental equivalent of having no feeling one one's hand, and putting that hand on a hot stove. The pain was there...he simply couldn't feel it.

This was Joker's fault. Shepard was dead, brave, compassionate, beautiful Jalissa…and it was Joker's fault. The cripple had survived while she had been snuffed out. Or burned up…the thought made him sick, though which was worse was not easily discernible.

"The ship fired on us…she never made it in."

"Because she was saving your ass." Tali was apparently the only one who heard Alenko's growled response. She put a hand on his shoulder, gave it a bracing squeeze.

It took a lot of effort not to shake her off. She was just a kid, just trying to help. But the longer Alenko looked at Joker, the angrier he got…he shifted his head as though trying to discreetly pop his neck. His headjack felt...funny.

His biotics weren't flaring...he was _fine_.

"They're still looking for her body. But she's either floating somewhere in deep space…or burned up upon reentry…" Dr. Chakwas' voice broke. Abandoning decorum she walked to the nearest chair, flung herself in it and hid her face behind clasped hands.

Dr. Chakwas had invested a lot of time in the ground crew. Williams' death shook her, too.

"I don't believe it." The voice again belonged to Tali, but the quaver in her tone indicated her words were of purest denial.

"Tali…" Dr. Chakwas looked up, her eyes tearless, but bloodshot.

"Shepard always said not to believe it unless there was a body. She was like that after Williams died, too. We can't give up on her. Not yet." But the quarian trembled as she said it, railing against the ugly reality.

"Tali…" Joker shook his head slowly, "last I saw, she was getting blasted across the cockpit as the pod…"

"_Stop it_!" Tali snapped. "You're thinking the same thing. If her suit was okay…" It was a flimsy argument, and it died on her lips. "…not until they find her body."

The silence in the wake of Tali's words was punctuated only by stifled grief.

Alenko found Joker looking at him and gave a huff. "This is your fault, you know." Was it hot in here? It couldn't be his amp overheating...he wasn't using it...

Joker blanched, but didn't deny it.

"Kaidan," Dr. Chakwas got back to her feet.

Alenko ignored her, attention fixed on Joker. The longer he looked at the pilot, the more he wanted to do something...extreme.

-J-

Dr. Chakwas looked hard at Alenko, her heart slowing, almost stopping. The sedative spray in her pocket felt icy in her hand. She couldn't help Shepard, but she could keep Alenko from showing the galaxy what loss could do to a stable L2.


	5. Let Go

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

"_This is your fault_!" the words hit the onlookers like a sonic wave as Alenko's biotic corona flared. A brief moment of motion left him standing in an empty circle on the floor. No one wanted to be flattened by an angry, grieving biotic—even without biotics Alenko was no pixie.

"Alenko!" Tali called sharply, her feet and hands going cold-sweaty. She was not afraid of Alenko, exactly…but this side of him was…unnerving. 'Unnerving' was a good word.

Joker didn't move, though only he knew it had nothing to do with seeing Alenko so close to being out of control.

"Kaidan, please," Dr. Chakwas spoke soothingly, hoping to get within reach of Alenko without tipping him off. This was not like Shepard dosing him on that one mission—at that time he had been, according to all accounts, something like a kitten.

Not so much now.

Alenko heard her, but for once ignored the warning completely. Muscles he didn't know he had in his neck and shoulders were knotting themselves, and the heat in his headjack had somehow reached the backs of his eyes. Rather than soothe any discomfort, the heat made him feel hot all over. And, for the first time in a long time, the odd high-frequency, high-pitched sort of ringing that meant his amp was connected was too loud, too high, distracting, and almost painful.

Something was wrong...but that was, his logic reasoned, because Joker was sitting there like statue and _she_ was...gone. It was less unpleasant to think in terms of 'gone' rather than 'cause of death being...'.

-J-

"Alenko, you _mustn't_!" Liara cried, elbowing to the fore of the group, followed by Tali who had, until this point, stood nervously on the sidelines, clearly wanting to interfere, but uncertain how best to do it.

This was it, she knew: Alenko had finally hit a wall, and who could blame him? Well, he might blame himself if he killed anyone. She mustn't let him do that.

Liara caught sight of Dr. Chakwas moving through the crowd—she lacked any particular predatory grace, but it was clear she was exerting all her efforts not to be noticed, to get behind Alenko...probably to give him a hefty dose of sedatives.

Liara let her own biotics flare as she placed herself between Alenko and Joker. No one looking at could tell it was not a place she wanted to be. In fact, despite knowing philosophically that Alenko was powerful only for a human, part of her expected to be flattened like a bug.

But all she had to do was keep his attention diverted...Dr. Chakwas wouldn't waste any time...

...and it seemed a poor way to repay Shepard's sacrifice by letting Joker get killed.

It seemed an even poorer way of expressing gratitude to the Commander for having repeatedly saved her life to let Alenko crash and burn in this fashion. Not if she could help avert it.

"Move." The word didn't seem to come from Alenko, even if his mouth moved.

She didn't know what to say this this: appeals to Alenko about not wasting Shepard's sacrifice or setting that sacrifice to naught probably wouldn't help. His drift was such a mess that it was impossible to succinctly quantify with any word except 'mess'. "I can't."

-J-

Dr. Chakwas saved the moment. She succeeded in looping back behind Alenko—she would never get in close enough if he saw her sneaking towards him—and with cold determination, not knowing what to expect, she pressed the sedative spray into the nearest convenient delivery point.

Her hand sunk through his biotic corona—just a veil of color, not a shield—the spray made contact and Alenko jerked.

But the damage was done. He lashed out biotically, but it manifested as little more than a shove. She barely stumbled: clearly she had startled him enough to break his preoccupation, but not enough to make him lash out in earnest.

"That's quite enough, Kaidan," Dr. Chakwas' mouth was dry as she spoke.

Alenko trembled a clear indication of a fight between sedatives and willpower. He would lose: humans only had so much fight in them. Sedatives didn't care.

-J-

Tali finally felt she could jump in, though 'jump' was only metaphorical. She moved to stand by Liara's shoulder, taking some comfort from the asari's cool poise. Liara? Cool poise? Who'd have thought? "Killing Joker isn't going to help!"

...that...sounded better in her head.

"He knows," Liara said softly, Alenko's drift turning watery gray under the influence of the sedatives.

"Now sit down before you fall down." Dr. Chakwas put one hand on Alenko's shoulder as he swayed, still trying to fight the sedatives but too groggy to resist Dr. Chakwas. Under her gentle guidance, Alenko staggered over to a chair and dropped into it. His expression had changed completely by this time. The anger was gone, only pain remained.

-J-

"I think, perhaps, we should let him be alone," Liara murmured to Tali, who nodded, understanding 'we' to mean 'Joker'.

"Come on," Tali murmured to Joker, laying a hand on his shoulder before she wheeled him out of the room.

Joker closed his eyes, sagging in the chair as Tali stopped. She had not taken him far, not knowing where to deposit him, but apparently she felt it was a safe distance from the door. The three-fingered hand returned to his shoulder, a firm, gentle pressure that he could not bear to shake off. There was no warmth, only pressure because of her suit, but it was better that way, giving a sense of neutrality.

She was neither accusing nor absolving him of what had happened.

If Shepard could have picked a way to die it would have been like this…

…like O'Conner had died, Joker thought bitterly. The correlation was uncomfortable, almost nauseating.

Neither of them had _wanted_ to die, but both had gone in a way they would not be ashamed of. Both had been successful in the rescues that cost them their lives.


	6. Guide and Guided

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

"…in the end, Commander Shepard was a good soldier. She epitomized the _service_ in service-woman for her entire career. Against pirates, slavers, and intergalactic bullies." Captain Ludmilla Robbins' eyes narrowed as her eyes moved to the new Council, indicating subtly that the next words were specifically for them, "against prejudice," her eyes shifted to Admiral Hackett, "against impossible demands," then to Captain Anderson, "and for the good of the galaxy." There, she had her hits in; anything else was just tactless. "I knew Shepard well. It has been said—and kindly meant—that Shepard went the way she would have wanted to go. I can tell you that she didn't want to go any more than anyone sitting here today. If she had to pick her death, yes, that would have been her preferred method: dying to save a life. It's the fact that she was _not_ ready to go that makes her sacrifice just that.

"The galaxy lost a hero, over Alchera. The Council lost a superb operative. Humanity lost an outstanding example of our species. The Alliance lost one of the best soldiers I ever had the opportunity to know and serve with. The _Normandy's_ crew lost more than all this." Red-rimmed eyes and ashy faces lifted from silent contemplation of the address to hear the words meant specifically for them.

They hadn't lost their compass, they'd lost their heart. Maybe it was best that Shepard and the ship had died together, if they had to go. The _Normandy_ without Shepard was like food without taste.

"If she was here, at her own funeral, she'd thank you for your support. I do it in her stead." Robbins took a deep breath, deciding to deviate from her speech and end on the sentiment she truly felt. Shepard would appreciate it more. "She would also ask where the Astro-Fizz and Relay Rob's at the consolation dinner were."

A few laughs, almost painful, punctuated otherwise stubborn silence.

"Thank you." It was for the ones who laughed at the very-Shepard sentiment that the funeral was really for. They were the ones who knew Shepard well enough to know that was _exactly_ what she would say.

"Robbins," Captain Anderson murmured, trying not to move his lips much as the next speaker, an N4 according to the pin on his jacket, got up. "What was _that_?" He was familiar with Shepard's almost comical rib fixation, though. Robbins was right: Shepard _would_ want to know where the ribs and soft drinks were…

…or, more accurately, why there were only weird little canapés, too many politicos, and not enough of the people she cared for at the catered luncheon following the ceremony.

"The ribs or the ribbing?" Robbins responded. "I was being tactful: they deserved more than that. You agree with me."

"But I didn't say it at Shepard's funeral."

"You should have." Robbins lifted her chin defiantly. Anderson had more time in rank than she did, but Shepard was _her_ protégé, n_ot_ his, whatever he might think. He might be a mentor, but he hadn't had the responsibility of refining one of the Alliance's best.

And the newly-appointed non-human Council's presence, as well as Ambassador Udina's, at this service disgusted Robbins. She did not doubt Anderson meant everything he said…but it sounded like the canned sort of thing people said at _every _funeral.

Robbins had no way of knowing that Shepard's loss staggered Captain Anderson, even to the point that it had taken the retreat into those canned words in order to say anything. He'd been part of assigning of Shepard to clear out any remaining geth. He thought it a nice, easy job, a way to keep the team out of the line of political fire for awhile. Shepard had forwarded a report of no activity to him, with a request to put in at the nearest well-colonized world in Citadel space to let her crew have some shore leave.

She never got his reply, endorsing the idea.

-J-

"I'm Chief Dresden Forbes; I met Commander Shepard when I was nineteen, a young man with a chip on my shoulder, eager to be a hero. Shepard would have corrected me in a hurry if I ever used that word in her direction while she was alive. I use it now because she can't backhand me: she _was_ a hero." Several more pained chuckles. "See? You know what I'm talking about." Forbes' eyes and nose stung, despite the levity of the comment. "A lot of people here have cited Shepard as a hero because of Elysium, for saving the Citadel.

"She wasn't a hero for any battle she fought—she knew her duty and stuck to it. Shepard was a hero because she could take angry young men and make good soldiers out of them. She could take the shyest, most timid little PFC on the crew," his eyes found Finch, still wearing Alliance blue, "find that person's strengths, and direct them towards excellence. That's a gift granted to few." Forbes wet his lips with his tongue, then nodded to show he had said his piece. He wanted to continue, to denounce all the superfluous butts in the seats—this was a family affair. In Shepard's case the Alliance and the crews she served with were family. Shepard deserved better than a lavish to-do of strangers—most of whom didn't really know her—over an empty coffin.

_And I thought _I _was supposed to be the corpse. There're a lot of zombies sitting out there, Forbes. Doesn't look too good for the home team. _

She _would_ say something like that, too. As he sat down he resolved to hold a proper memorial to Shepard, even if he had to do it by himself. Something the living woman could have appreciated. Shepard was not much for loud parties…but he had seen her get up and dance once or twice…

Ribs. Those stupid ribs and that dumb soda. Her favorite meal shared by old teammates…she would appreciate that.


	7. Aftermath

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

He was wearing his dress blues. They had made him shave, despite his protests. Shepard wouldn't have _recognized_ him without the scruffy beard and BDUs, not until he opened his mouth. But for once he had nothing snarky to say, so it was entirely likely she wouldn't recognize him at all.

It was ironic, Joker thought morosely, his thoughts retreading familiar ground.

Gina O'Connor died going back for a soldier separated from his unit.

Jalissa Shepard died going back for a soldier who wouldn't leave his post.

Best friends who did almost everything together…and then died in more or less the same way. Going back for a fellow soldier, knowing the rescue might result in two dead bodies instead of one. Only Alenko voiced the accusation that Shepard's death was his, Joker's, fault.

Joker agreed with him.

Unreservedly.

-J-

Garrus Vakarian was one of the few turians present. The other two were C-Sec officers, playing security for the stage full of brass and politicians. One was the Spectre requisitions officer, Livion, the other…he didn't know, but the kid looked as though someone had just killed his cat.

He suspected the younger turian knew Shepard, somehow, though he could not speculate.

It was only here and now that Garrus knew he had hung around the humans too long. He could imagine Shepard, as a see-through spirit, like a ghost in the stories occasionally bantered about on the _Normandy_, walking the ship's wreckage in a frozen wasteland...

_Things in general had been going so well…_but now they were getting tense. When the news broke, someone had asked 'isn't that the crazy one?'. That hadn't ended well, but he was the one who walked (was dragged) away. Arguments with his bosses were, at least, back to normal…except he found himself more and more irritated by them.

And it was only a few weeks since the incident that claimed Shepard's life. The low level of malcontent about Shepard's choices regarding the Council was growing palpable as the dust started to settle.

And _still _no one was doing anything about the Reapers.

It did not bode well for the future.

-J-

Kaidan Alenko spent most of the funeral with his head bowed, eyes closed, and face scrunched as through wading through a migraine. But it was not his head that hurt. Or if it did, he couldn't feel it for the ache in his chest. He had hoped, even knowing there was no point, that it would be like after the battle on the Citadel, that Shepard would turn up, pinned or otherwise trapped, but alive. That she would somehow pull a miraculous escape. She was good at those...

But too much time had elapsed. He knew that.

He also knew that the Reapers were coming, but could not bring himself to care. He _knew_ someone had to step up to the plate, to fill her shoes…but he wasn't that person. He couldn't be…even thinking about stepping up to the plate seemed to crush him like a bug under a concrete block.

Was that what it was like for her? All those months?

Attempts to rally himself to do anything more than basic daily tasks ended under the crushing weight of loss. All he could seem to do was exist, and mourn her.

Without her, the galaxy was a darker, colder, emptier place. And without her, without someone to take her place, it was also doomed. The galaxy just didn't know it yet.

-J-

Liara T'Soni sharply refused to go to the funerary ceremony, just as she had refused to give up in those awful days after the news broke. She'd cast the dice, and all she could do was wait. Wait, and sublimate grief into purpose. Someone was going to die…and that someone would deserve it.

Someone was going to live…she had to think like that, or what was all the effort for?

-J-

Tali'Zorah vas Neema cried. Howled, if truth be told. She had never called Shepard 'Captain' out loud, but she accepted that was what Shepard was. A captain and a friend. She made Tali feel welcome, like a valuable part of the team, from the very beginning. Tali never thought of herself as _vas Normandy_, but she would have been proud to wear the name, even though she wanted to go back to the Flotilla.

Shepard had led a rescue team like a heavy rock slamming through thin ice just to rescue a quarian she had never met. But she had done more. She kept Tali close at hand, worried one of Saren's agents might not have given up silencing the one person who knew about the Conduit and the Reapers. She took Tali along for the mission, took her on ground missions even, treated her like an equal, not as a second-class citizen as most of the galaxy would.

Acceptance and trust, and she still a Pilgrim at the time. Little more than a child.

It was a small comfort that Shepard's last actions succeeded—that Joker was saved. It was a small comfort that the pilot was still alive. But small comforts did not go far to easing the grief…and it was hard watching Joker stagger under the weight of his.

She closed her stinging eyes, swallowing hard, glad her facemask obscured her from the sight of anyone and everyone in her vicinity.

She was not invited to the 'official' funeral, but she was not sure she could have gone even if she had received an invitation. There was nothing of Shepard there…and even if there was, she did not want to see Shepard dead. She didn't want to see a coffin with the Alliance flag draped over it. She didn't want to think about what happened to a person who died in space after suffocating and burned up upon reentry.

Better to remember her alive and whole…and better to honor her life with actions rather than words.

Shepard liked words, but she liked actions backing up those words much better.

Still…it hurt.


	8. Memorial

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Relay Rob's did not know why it was so full of Alliance soldiers that day, off and on, sometimes in trickles, sometimes in floods. It was not until nineteen hundred, when the place was fullest that they found out.

Finch bit her lip. She hated getting up in front of a lot of people, but the mood in the restaurant was one of tension, everyone knew they ought to say _something, _but no one wanted to be the first, for fear of being the first to rock the boat.

Shepard had done that several times, rocked the boat when no one else would.

'_Sometimes you've just got to take the good with the bad, and open your gob.' _

Finch cleared her throat, startling Forbes and Partridge, then stood up, speaking far too loudly. "To Commander Shepard," she held up her Lunar-Fizz—the lemon-lime equivalent of Shepard's favorite drink. "If the geth hadn't got her, this Astro-Fizz stuff would have." She drowned the remaining half of the bottle, plunking it down on the table when she finished. Looking around, Finch nodded slowly. "_She_ would have laughed."

Several people did, as she sat down, including Forbes.

Forbes eyed his soft drink, and the empty plate of ribs. More accurately, the plate full of rib bones. He had been with Shepard over lunch at a Relay Rob's once—and that was while discussing business, his entry into the N-program.

-J-

'_Wow…you ever change what you eat, ma'am?'_ _As quickly as she ordered the food, it would not have surprise Forbes if the restaurant had it written down somewhere: the Shepard Special, one Astro-Fizz and a whole lot of ribs._

'_Why?'_

'_Why not?' He did not squirm under the look Shepard gave him. He was still not sure if she had thought along the lines of 'what do you plan to do that's going to ruin my beloved Corps?' She had not said it yet, but part of him wondered if she was thinking it. It was not necessary to have someone's endorsement to get into the N program, but it helped. _

'_Mom never made apple pie, so it's ribs and a soft drink. Do you want some or not?' _

-J-

Forbes did not realize he was grinning foolishly until Partridge elbowed him. "Oi, do you want anything?"

Forbes, startled, opened his mouth, all the while looking at the plate of rib bones. "Yeah, give me the Shepard Special."

Oh…did he just say that out loud? If Partridge's 'what's wrong with you' look and Finch's grin of delight were any indication, he had.

"Me too!"

" 'Shepard Special'? You do realize," Partridge noted dryly, "that utterly ridiculous?"

Both his fellow soldiers waved this off, and proceeded to explain to a very confused waitress what a Shepard Special was: a big, cold Astro-Fizz and as many ribs as a plate could hold.

Partridge shook his head. He never had the same level of deep-running loyalty to Shepard that Forbes and Finch had. She had tried that subtle manipulation bit on _him_, and he was proud to say he'd avoided her influences. It was not that he disliked her, but he was certainly not fond of her.

He approved of her most when subtly and tact failed, leaving her the option of hands-on diplomacy. Krogan and batarians responded to that sort of thing very well. Or they 'took the full nine yards', to use the outdated phrase.

-J-

Robbins and Maguire came into Relay Rob's later that night, well after most of the 'kids' had cleared out. "It's a crying shame," Maguire grunted, shaking his head slowly. "She was a good kid." He never got out of the habit of calling her kid, even when she was nearing her thirtieth birthday—a birthday she would not see. He remembered the first time he clapped eyes on her: he would never have expected her to become what she did. He expected to find out none of the kids salvaged from Mindoir had survived to see their twentieth birthday.

"She was. One of the best." And not just in the capacity of a soldier.

"Oh…more Alliance…Shepard Special, right?" a frazzled-looking waiter asked, his shoulders sagging.

"Yeah I think I—_what_?" Robbins gaped, slapping her menu down in surprise to gaze at the lad.

"Just when things were settling down...from nineteen hundred to twenty-thirty we couldn't keep enough ribs on the grill! All Alliance, all wanting more or less the same thing…" the waiter stopped, realizing that, in his exhaustion he was ranting at a customer.

Fortunately, Robbins was amused.

Maguire said nothing: he knew what it was to bus tables all night. Everyone had a life before the Alliance, after all.

"So what's the Shepard Special?" Shepard would have loved to think her equivalent of a gravestone would be a plate named after her at Relay Rob's. She wouldn't care much for the already-in-planning memorial plaza at Elysium.

Shepard had always felt part of her had died, stayed, and was buried on Mindoir. She had already consigned herself, that part at least, to the earth there.

She wouldn't care for whatever the Citadel planned to do with the empty coffin.

But a plate named after her at Relay Rob's…she would have beamed like a wallflower schoolgirl invited to the prom by that loved-from-afar someone.

"An order of ribs and a soft drink—usually Astro-Fizz," the waiter announced, glancing from one to the other, ready to whisk away to fetch two orders' worth.

Robbins nodded, grinning in rueful amusement at Maguire. "I'll take the Astro-Fizz with mine…"

"I'm _not_ drinking that crap." Maguire put his foot down hastily. From Robbins' smile, she knew he would not, not even in memory of Shepard, chug that carbonated sludge.

Robbins looked at the menu before handing it over. Relay Rob's stocked her brand of soft drink…but it seemed somehow inappropriate to order a Shepard special accompanied by a bottle of Astro-Fizz's leading competitor.

Or maybe not: it was the sort of joke Shepard would appreciate.


	9. Heartache

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Mrs. Alenko was always glad to have her son—her only child—visit home. It did not happen often, nor did she expect it to—he was, after all, fully grown and more than capable of looking after himself…but still, he was her boy, and he knew it.

That was why it did not surprise her that Kaidan should make a short visit; with his duty station destroyed, his commanding officer killed in action, and the Alliance still sorting out the matter he had time to make the jump from Arcturus to Vancouver.

And she worried. Kaidan was a patchy correspondent, though mostly because he only stopped to think about writing home when events slowed down. From what she understood about the last mission, time in which to slow down was a luxury, so letters were sporadic.

But during that so-busy time, his letters took on a different cast than those from before his posting on the _Normandy_. Before he had been satisfied with his work and his life, fairly comfortable with his assignments and the overall direction things were taking.

Within a few weeks of his new posting, she realized what the change was. He was no longer simply satisfied with a successful career. He was _happy_. He had gushed for one or two letters about the commanding officer—she recognized Shepard's name only as a headline of a newsvid—but then the character settled into the background of things.

Not to say the girl had faded out. Rather, she became a permanent, integral fixture in Kaidan's world, and thus in his letters. Not that he would ever _admit_ to anything more than a professional relationship, but a mother had her eyes open when it came to her beloved boy.

At first she was not sure who the girl was—though she knew now. At the time, it could have been any member of the service, not necessarily one on Kaidan's duty station—it was only after he mentioned having run into Rahna that things became clear.

Mrs. Alenko was not wholly privy to that footnote in Kaidan's life. She knew he met the girl, was fond of her, and they had some kind of falling out—all colored by the aftermath of Jump Zero.

It was hard to think about that awful place, even now, so many years ago. The very thought of what had been done to (and neglected to be done for) the children still caused echoes of the utter outrage.

It was the one time Kaidan ever saw her as being truly fierce. A sort of peace-making delegation had turned up, with their excuses and assurances only to find a four foot eleven Singaporean lady ready to claw their eyes out.

For starters.

She had called them every name in the book—brain butchers being her favorite—and sent them off after having snarled her piece…sending them right into the formidable bulk of her just-home-from-work husband.

Then Mr. Alenko took his turn. Usually his quiet, stony disapproval was enough to quell most people. On that day, however, the volatile woman took the laurels for making the point clear without coming off as wholly irrational.

The outrage subsided, but the instinct to carefully scrutinize any entity approaching her son had not. She made a mistake once, and Kaidan paid for it. She made sure not to repeat the occurrence.

But there—thoughs did tend to wander about so.

It was seeing mention of Rahna and Shepard in the same letter that confirmed her suspicions. It was not something she could articulate for anyone, but there it was: an expressed, almost detached fondness for his first love (or so she gathered) and the stronger, unnamed attachment to Shepard.

And now Shepard was dead, killed in action, but without a family to receive flag, letter of commiseration, and personal effects. There was only a weighted coffin and, from Kaidan's grim missive asking if it would be convenient for him to swing by for a few days, a lot of squabbling over who got to put on the pomp and show of burying her, and hosting her memorial service.

He sounded absolutely disgusted with the whole matter, possibly thinking she belonged with her family, without her death being milked for every ounce of propaganda possible. Mrs. Alenko agreed completely: the woman had given her life to service, she ought to be allowed to fade out of it gently now that she was gone.

The knock at the door was heavy, tired, as though the one knocking had the weight of the world pressing down on him. Grief was like that, heavier than lead, heavy like guilt—and Mrs. Alenko suspected there was a shade of guilt there, too. After all, Shepard had not exactly died in combat: she went down with her ship, after ensuring all her living crewmen were safely evacuated.

But a hero's death did not, could not, comfort the living. Not when the loss was so fresh, like a bleeding wound, as it was now. There might be comfort in convening with others who knew the Commander…but very few knew Shepard as anything but Commander, comrade, possibly friend.

And even if someone had known her better than 'friend', it was never Kaidan's way; he preferred to muddle through on his own in solitude.

On the porch, in the rain which had steadily poured since before sunrise, stood Kaidan, alert, but with that little worry crease between his eyebrows and crinkles around his eyes as though he was making an effort to do—or not do— something, but he was otherwise composed.

Except there was some spark gone out of him, as he stooped to hug his mother, so tiny by comparison.

Mrs. Alenko knew what was missing: he had come back with only half his heart, half his soul. The other half died in the great void of space…and he had brought that piece of void back with him, like a bullet left in the wound.


	10. Square One

Beta-read by Saberlin.

Author's Note: Okay, this is a Legion chapter, and his 'voice' will probably take several tries (and thus will probably change somewhat over time), since I need him to 'read' differently from an organic. Consider yourselves my test monkeys. ^_^

-J-

(Logging preliminary mission assessment (PrelimEP):

1059 Local Time. Cluster: Exodus, System: Utopia, Planet: Eden Prime, territory of the Human Systems Alliance.

Risk rating: high. Military conflict occurrences have occured within 5 standard years.

Warning: Previous heretic presence recorded.

Mission type: reconnaissance.

Mission-specific criteria: Do not engage populous. Maintain zero-presence profile.)

Mission objective alert: locality acquired. Send message to Rannoch consensus.

End logging of preliminary mission assessment (PrelimEP).)

(Logging: MsgEP01)

_-Message-_

_Arrived Eden Prime (Cluster: Exodus, System: Utopia, Planet: Eden Prime) 1059 local time. Platform/ship undetected. Entering radio silence. Will report upon mission conclusion. _

_Platform out._

_-End Message-_

End logging MsgEP01, send message. Message sent.)

Logistics node: Mission objective, locate Prothean dig site investigated by Shepard-Commander. Mission objective: find Shepard-Commander, initiate non-hostile contact when possible.

Mission directives: extranet search runtimes, keywords are Eden Prime, archaeological site, Prothean.

Search returned: three sites.

Alert: Localities overly disparate.

Mission directives: extranet search runtimes, narrow parameters. Repeat search with new criteria.

Extranet search runtimes: narrowing parameters. Repeating search.

Logging functions: Suggested reference material, Eden Prime, geth attack, Saren

Extranet search runtimes: data accepted. Recalculating. Data found, new criteria: _spaceport, _2183. Searching: Eden Prime, archaeological site, Prothean, space port, 2183.

Extranet search runtimes: search returned coordinates of spaceport. Routing to shipboard computer.

Mission directives: Navigation interfaces, plot course.

Navigation interfaces: Plotting course. Course plotted.

Navigation interfaces query: Begin insertion?

Consensus achieved (logged: 1000 in favor, 142 in opposition, 41 abstain): Insertion to be postponed.

Navigation interfaces recommendation: remain outside short-range detection protocols during arrival/insertion interim period.

Consensus reached (logged: unanimous consensus).

Mission directives: remain out of detection range.

Navigation interfaces: orbit established. Detection has not occurred. Mission may continue.

Mission directives: define SOPs for insertion, mission conduct, and extraction.

Logging functions: running standard early detection filters based on keywords array 002311a.

Monitoring functions: implementing SED filter 002311a.

Log-Function-934: hacking civilian communication frequencies for monitoring. Hack complete: full access granted. Filters detect no red-grade keywords.

Log-Function-931: hack and monitor military communication frequencies.

Log-Function-931: hacking…hacking…

Logging functions: Warning, firewalls encountered. Adapting protocols to avoid triggering system alarms.

Log-Function-931: Hack aborted. Recalculating hack protocols. Protocols adapted. Restarting hack.

Mission directive: Situational report indicates zero-presence profile maintained. Continue mission. Allocate lingual interface programs 769-800 to bolster logging functions.

Logged: new resources allocated.

Logging functions: IF Shepard-Commander detected THEN reallocate tempLogFunction-769 through tempLogFunctionsp-800 to lingual interface node to permit communication. ELSE: maintain reallocation and split logging functions' workload.

Log-Function-931, -932, tempLog-Function-774: Acquiring secondary entry vector. Confirmation: Program backdoor acquired. All channels available for monitoring.

tempLog-Function-800: Alert. Filters detect RGL1 keyword: geth

Log-Function-394: Alert. Filters detect RGL1 keyword: attack

Mission directives: Begin loop: apply SED filter002311(var+1). IF var = z THEN end loop. ELSE repeat loop. Loop.

Log-Function-930: Loop return. Filters detect L2R keywords: geth involved in hostilities.

Monitoring functions: Locality referenced is Serpent NebulaWidowCitadel, not immediate vicinity.

Miss-Dir-009: Data is not pertinent. Continue mission?

Consensus achieved (logged: 1174 in favor, 0 in opposition, 9 abstain): continue mission.

Mission directives: continue running transmission filters.

Mission directives: Reference diurnal/nocturnal cycle for optimum insertion time.

Monit-1023: diurnal conditions are between the hours of ~0601 and ~2100.

Monit-1022: nocturnal conditions are between the hours of ~2101 and ~0600.

Monitoring functions: Reference local weather patterns.

Monit-1023: diurnal conditions: weather is likely to be cloudless, low humidity, no precipitation.

Monit-1022: nocturnal conditions: weather is likely to be cool, cloudy, low humidity, low precipitation.

Monitoring functions: Reference 'projected nocturnal atmospheric conditions'. Conditional criteria: will there be significant cloud cover?

Monit-1024: Significant cloud cover predicted between the hours of 1800 and 0422.

Monitoring functions query: is more data required?

Consensus achieved (logged: 1101 in favor, 82 in opposition, 0 abstain):

Mission directives: Mission success chances increase with the collection of further data. Continue data gathering protocols.

Monitoring functions: Reference 'astronomic conditions'.

Monit-1025: lunar conditions likely to have negligible impact.

Monitoring functions: Reference 'local customs/holidays/festivals'. Conditional criteria 01: is custom/holiday/festival in progress? Conditional criteria 02: is custom/holiday/festival likely to occur within four local days?

Monit-1021, criteria 01: none at present; crowds or unanticipated lights unlikely.

Monit-1021, criteria 02: no custom/holiday/festival anticipated. Mission may continue within specified timeframe.

Monitoring functions to logging functions: please accept data packets EP-temporal, EP-atmospheric, EP-cultural.

Logging functions: packets accepted. Transferring to tactical arrays for analysis.

Tactical arrays recommendation: optimal time for infiltration is 2323 local time. Weather conditions favorable for maintaining zero-presence profile.

Consensus achieved (logged: 1181 in favor, 1 in opposition, 1 abstain)

Tactical arrays recommendation: enter standby mode until mission commencement.

Consensus achieved (logged: unanimous consensus).

Mission directives: entering standby mode. Disengage standby at 2315 for pre-mission assessments.

-J-

0339, Eden Prime local time. Mission complete.

(Logging: MsgEP02)

_-Message-_

_Leaving Eden Prime 0339 local time. Zero-presence profile compromised, altercation occurred. No damage to organics present. Ship undamaged. Platform has suffered major damage to Region-2 (left shoulder), Region-3 (chest, left pectoral region) from mass accelerator weapon. Will attempt self-maintenance. _

_Consensus logged unanimous continue mission after making repairs. _

_New destination: Artemis Tau, Knossus, Therum. _

_Significance: site of rescue of scientist T'Soni, Liara, known _SR-1 _crewman, known associate of Shepard-Commander. Second major location associated with Shepard-Commander, but unlikely to produce data. Ruins compromised in catastrophic seismic event. _

_Platform out._

_-End Message-_

End logging MsgEP02, send message. Message sent.)

Maintenance operations: running diagnostics. Diagnostics complete. Assessment: damage can be partially repaired with immediately available resources.

Tactical arrays recommendation: do not loiter in system. Reroute to mass relay.

Consensus logged: unanimous, leave system and redirect to Therum.

Maintenance operations: Full repair requires the following materials. (List forwarded to logging functions and stored for cross-reference at next waypoint.)

Mission directives: Navigation functions, plot course for Therum (Cluster: Artemis Tau, System: Knossus, Planet: Therum).

Navigation functions: course plotted, initiating FTL-travel and engaging autopilot. Autopilot engaged. We are en route.

Housekeeping protocols: Logging functions, release tempLogFunction-769 through tempLogFunctionsp-800 to lingual interface node as LI-769 through LI-800. Logging functions, save Eden Prime log and begin new interim log.

Maintenance operations: all free processes reallocate to platform maintenance.

Lingual interface: interface test seems appropriate. Ow.

Maintenance operations: all free processes reallocate immediately to platform maintenance.


	11. Legacy

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Talitha sat at her desk in the classroom, tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth as she struggled to craft legible words with the stylus. It was amazing to watch: psychologically in ruins, scarred, and prone to panicky reactions, yet she attacked learning like it was an enemy.

That is to say, she had latched onto a concept and sank fingernails and teeth into it, no matter how much it tried to elude her. In this her progress was rapid and remarkable. She refused to be defeated by anything academic. The point blank determination was almost frightening—it took her an average amount of time to learn, but once she had a concept, she irreversibly _had _it.

Behind the two-way mirror overlooking the schoolroom for the half dozen psychologically shattered students in Talitha's class, the overseers were deep in conversation. "It isn't right to tell her." Richinson said, shaking his head. "She doesn't need to know. She's seen enough death, she doesn't need to hear about another."

"She deserves to know where the…the legacy comes from," Dalton responded flatly, crossing her arms. "_Deserves,_ Rich."

Richinson rolled his eyes, shaking his head firmly as Talitha scowled at her paper, her face twisting up before she furiously scratched something out. "I thought we verified she had no family left anywhere." It was easier to sidestep the issue step by step. Dalton was an astute woman; give her a couple hints and she would turn around and give you an accurate 'hypothetical situation'. It was easier to derail her if one approached an issue as one approached skipping stones—one push at the opportune moment, and the issue would be abandoned in favor of not falling off the stone upon which one stood.

"The benefactor _wasn't_ family. It's an Alliance mandatory life insurance policy," Dalton answered blandly, her eyes drifting back to her charge. "And a few person effects. Just little—"

"Alliance?"

"Yes," Dalton responded, a little surprised by Richinson's tone. "Commander Shepard—the one to whom the policy belongs—was a Mindoir survivor. Didn't you know that?"

Richinson's guts twisted uncomfortably. "Of course I _know_ that—I simply didn't know she was connected to this, that's all." No, he hadn't! He glanced at Talitha, half wishing he hadn't heard about this at all.

"I suppose she felt some sort of kinship to a fellow survivor. Regardless, according to the message I received, there are some items to be passed along to Talitha." Dalton shrugged, sympathy personified. There was no accounting for soldiers sometimes, and she wouldn't _dream_ of trying to fathom heroes or Spectres.

They knew where skeletons were hidden—she didn't, and didn't want to.

"Have you run through them?" This he could not block. Talitha would find out; it was best to control how.

"Space souvenirs, mostly. Nothing dangerous, nothing questionable."

With an aggravated sigh, Richinson got up. "Let's go have a look; when did this…stuff…arrive?

"Yesterday." Dalton got to her feet, padding quietly after the irritated Richinson.

The small box did not hold much, but what it did hold would undoubtedly interest Talitha. There was small mirror of a watery gray metal studded with luminous, pea-sized, sky-blue pearly stones and tiny, dark blue, winking ones; a geometric statue of something looking like granite—only darker in color than granite usually was; a spiral of transparent bubbles suspended from a circular frame, like a wind chime, with a butterfly in bright colors in each bubble; a bracelet of luminescent white stone, almost translucent, and carved intricately like water; a paper book, whose title he did not recognize; and a statue of a lithe black cat in a seated position, one hind foot reaching as though to scratch its chin. No cat could ever reach quite like that, but the smooth lines and curves of the statue were certainly aesthetically pleasing. It was also unusually heavy for its size.

"You're right: it all looks fairly harmless," Richinson agreed. He did not know what he had expected, only that the Powers That Be wanted information of this sort—Shepard's contacts, the ones people didn't necessarily know by name. He didn't understand the sudden interest in the personal life of a dead war hero turned Spectre, but he didn't question the Powers That Be.

They tended to take it unfavorably, so stories went. If he thought he was uncomfortable, now, at a civilian facility while under orders, he couldn't imagine how uncomfortable the Powers That Be could make his life if he started asking too many questions...or failed in his orders.

Richinson took a deep breath, wondering at the significance of the items left to Talitha. Certainly no secret messages from Spectres reaching out from beyond the grave. The nasty shock of having tripped over one of the things the Powers That Be wanted had, by now, diminished.

It seemed a harmless enough legacy. He hoped that the Powers That Be wouldn't want end up wanting it for some reason. That could be…awkward, and already Dalton was showing signs of mild suspicion. Why, after all, should something like this cause him so much agitation?

There was a reason, Richinson sighed, why he was not a true field operative. He supported the cause, but was simply not cut out for the subtleties sometimes required. He prayed no one ever found that out: those without use quickly became expendable pawns. It was what kept the organization strong: they culled out the weak. "By all means, let's pass it on as soon as possible. I'm sure she'll enjoy the baubles. Not at all the sort of thing I imagined the great Commander Shepard as having."

"You can't be gun grease and bullets all the time," Dalton shrugged.

"True," Richinson looked at the box of articles again.

He had to wonder, if only idly and without expecting an answer, why the Powers That Be wanted Shepard's personal attachments identified. After a long moment's speculation, he stopped wondering.

It was probably best he didn't know.


	12. Dead End

Beta-read by Saberlin.

AN: More Legion!

-J-

(Logging preliminary mission assessment (PrelimAl):

0205 Ship Time. Cluster: Omega, System: Amada, Planet: Alchera, territory of the Terminus Systems.

Risk rating: high. Social unrest and proximity to Omega Station present additional dangers.

Alert: Last known good locality for Shepard-Commander.

End logging of preliminary mission assessment (PrelimAl).)

Mission directives: scan surface for anomalies.

Monitoring functions: Reference collected metallurgical data on SR-1 for scanning parameters.

Mission objective alert: Wreckage of SR-1 identified. Send confirmation/update message to Rannoch consensus.

(Logging: MsgAl01)

_-Message-_

_Arrived Alchera (Cluster: Omega, System: Amada, Planet: Alchera) 0205 ship time. Platform/ship undetected. No biological activity detected; SR-1 wreckage identified. Will report upon mission conclusion. _

_Platform out._

_-End Message-_

End logging MsgAl01, send message. Message sent.)

Mission directives: Reference diurnal/nocturnal cycle for optimum insertion time.

Monit-1023: diurnal conditions operative for ~29 hours (one Alliance ship-board day +5.5 hours).

Monit-1022: nocturnal conditions operative for ~30.2 (one Alliance ship-board day +6.2 hours).

Monitoring functions: Reference local weather patterns.

Monit-1023: diurnal conditions: suitable for maintaining stable icepack. Prolonged exposure possible, but not recommended.

Monit-1022: nocturnal conditions: inhospitable; strong methane-ammonia snowstorms likely.

Alert: the platform is not designed for nocturnal conditions.

Monitoring directives recommendation: Peak thermal conditions occur in T minus 20 hours. Groundside touchdown should occur within this timeframe to minimize possible damages to the platform.

Consensus achieved (logged: unanimous consensus).

Monitoring functions query: is more data required?

Consensus achieved (logged: unanimous consensus): no further data required.

Tactical arrays recommendation: enter standby mode until mission commencement.

Consensus achieved (logged: unanimous consensus).

Mission directives: entering standby mode. Disengage standby at T minus 20 hours for pre-mission assessments.

-J-

(Logging: MsgAl02)

_-Message-_

_Update: (Cluster: Omega, System: Amada, Planet: Alchera). Platform/ship undetected. Locked onto SR-1 wreckage signal. Beginning planet-fall, will report upon mission conclusion. _

_-End Message-_

End logging MsgAl02, send message. Message sent.)

Mission directives: Monitoring functions, identify and log all wreckage. Scan for anomalies or manmade artifacts. Log findings for reference.

Monitoring functions: command accepted. Logging.

Monitoring functions: Logging functions. Return searches on 'disaster, Normandy'.

Logging functions: Internal databank accessed. Background data found; commencing searches on command.

LogEntry: evacuation shuttle designations (shuttles recovered, shuttles not launched).

LogEntry: personnel MIA (20—listed as 'KIA, unconfirmed'), personnel KIA (confirmed: 1).

Monitoring functions: Obj1, hull segment; bridge and cockpit. Evacuation pod absent.

Logging functions: Evac shuttle match—occupant Flight Lieutenant Jeff Moreau.

Logging functions: audio clip available, recorded from consensus military broadcast logs. Play audio?

Mission directives: play audio.

Logging functions: Command accepted.

LogEntry: _No, I don't think you know how I _feel_: you've never killed anyone. You've never caused anyone to be killed because you were stupid. So just-just sign off on your report that it's my fault. Can we move on now? I don't want to talk about this. _

Monitoring functions: Obj2, bridge section, SR-1 _Normandy_ nose art.

Monitoring functions: Obj3, Escape shuttle SR1c: Cormick, Leary, Smith, and Browne. (Current posting: all on SSV _Reykjavik_, Maj. L. Robbins.)

LogEntry: Robbins, Ludmilla: commanding officer of SSV _Reykjavik_, former commanding officer of SSV _El_ _Alamein_, former commanding officer of Shepard-Commander.

Monitoring functions: Obj4, galaxy map wreckage (nonfunctional), remains of SR-1's CIC.

LogEntry: SR-1 gutted during attack; most KIA-unconfirmed killed when hull integrity was compromised.

Monitoring functions: Obj5, M35-Mako (nonfunctional).

Monitoring functions: Obj6, portion of crew deck (deck 2 of 3). Billeting: sleeper pods present.

Monitoring functions: all major landmarks logged.

ShipAlert: orbiting: armor-grade polymer detected. Scanning. Scan completed, sending possible matches to mobile platform.

(Image transmitted. Original article: shoulder plate, light armor, female fit, further scans indicate customization. Re-scan: red and white render (N7 motif)).

Mission directives: navigation functions, plot vector for further investigation.

Navigation functions: ship required to reach objective. Calling vessel.

-J-

Monitoring functions: armor-grade polymer, damaged shoulder plate, light armor, female fit, customized N7 motif. Result: Shepard-Commander.

Maintenance/repair directives: Monitoring functions, scan for integrity.

Monitoring functions: scanning. Integrity compromised.

Maintenance/repair directives: platform is compromised. Processing. Processing. Plate is sufficient to assist in self-repair.

Mission directives: incorporate plate into hardware.

M/RD-252: plate does not add to overall platform integrity.

Mission directives: incorporate plate into hardware.

M/RD-145: Requires omnigel for sealant, requires sterilization—plate is compromised by exposure to reentry stresses. It requires cleaning for solid omnigel bond.

M/RD-241: Acquiring plate; repairs can be made ship-side.

Navigation functions alert: storm brewing, vector is en route to the platform's current location. Recommendation: return to ship immediately.

Mission directives: scan for survivors, log result.

Monitoring functions: scan is negative.

Logging functions: entry logged: no survivors.

Logging functions query: were survivors expected?

Internal process monitoring: expressing simulated organic reaction. SEE: 'hope'. Comprehension of concept required to carry out directive.

Mission directives: Critical mission failure: Shepard-Commander is not present, but equipment presumably belonging to Shepard-Commander is. Implications are evident. Evidence supports implications.

Internal analysis calculation node: Statistical analysis indicates a near-zero probability of Shepard-Commander surviving reentry. Alliance armor is not intended for reentry.

IACN-002: Also, she had no parachute.

Logistics node: parachute would not have altered the outcome of reentry.

Logging functions: cross-referencing background information 'soldiers' and 'hope'. Result: _habeas corpus_: 'bring me the body'. Popular concept: do not assume KIA until body is produced.

Mission directives: body recovery is not always possible. Request for proof of death is impossible.

Internal process monitoring: SEE: 'hope'. SEE ALSO: 'denial'.

Mission directives: contacting ship for pickup.

-J-

(Logging: MsgAl03)

_-Message-_

_Update: (Cluster: Omega, System: Amada, Planet: Alchera). Mission concluded._

_Traces of Shepard-Commander found. Possibility of survival of atmospheric reentry phenomenally low: 0, .000001. Survival chances are not significant. Assume death upon reentry, impact only results in further damage to the deceased. Further ship-board scans indicate multiple excursions by multiple groups to general area of SR-1's wreckage and the area near the recovered Shepard-Commander artifact._

_No data available as to the other excursions. Will narrow search parameters, time allowing._

_Update: successful repairs made to damaged platform; platform integrity reinforced, total damage is not, however, reversible. Platform will require right pectoral rebuild. Platform consensus recommendation: damage is not critical, please forward new mission parameters. _

_Will wait in-system until contacted._

_-End Message-_

End logging MsgAl03, send message. Message sent.)


	13. Disintegrate

Author's Note: Because even Garrus needs stability in his environment, and I don't think he could have set up his Omega operations in just a couple months. This vignette takes place over the course of a month or two, but does not occur right after Shepard dies.

-J-

Antilles Vakarian knew that his son would explode when the news finally broke, and Garrus did not disappoint him. It was a hard decision to come to, but he'd finally made up his mind. The problem was that he hadn't told Garrus the full story as to _why_, exactly, the time had come for him to retire from C-Sec altogether.

"What?" Garrus demanded, blue eyes flashing. The boy looked so much like his, Antilles', grandfather—it was the eyes. "You're _quitting_?" his mandibles hung limp in shock.

"I'm not _quitting_, I'm _retiring_," Antilles announced firmly. "There's a _difference_."

"You're _quitting_," Garrus snapped back, "you can't just _quit_."

He could—and would—if he damn well felt like it! As if Garrus was one to talk about quitting and packing up!

Antilles had to grab his running-away-with-him pride quickly. Garrus didn't know about the…problems…back home. He didn't know about the Corpalis Syndrome slowly taking hold of Amalthea—and Antilles wasn't sure how to tell Garrus.

Certainly not when Garrus was working himself into a temper.

"It's better for the family. Your mother—"

"Oh come _on_," Garrus recoiled, sneering, "you're going to use _that_? After all this time?"

Antilles pulled his mandibles close to his chin. The long-distance back-and-forth relationships had worked for the family, up until now. Antilles was one of the old-school detectives: one did not keep one's loved ones too close when one had 'bad people' who might exploit their presence.

It was just basic safety…and he couldn't, wouldn't give up being a cop on account of it. Amalthea understood that when she married him. He _thought_ Garrus had understood.

"Never mind," Garrus flicked an irritable hand, getting to his feet. "Do whatever you've got to do." With this rebellious statement, Garrus stalked out of the room.

Antilles sat in the gathering quiet, keenly aware that the ambience of the room was not the same as what usually settled after he and Garrus argued. The room seemed forlorn, not full of ringing silence.

-J-

Garrus tried. He really had tried. His resolution to fight the good fight was as strong as ever…but the protection of the criminal element by The System was beginning to wear on him. Worse than that, it seemed to do so even more since his father had retired from C-Sec and returned to Palaven.

He couldn't help but be angry with his father. They had finally gotten to a point where they could work in the same ward of the Citadel without wanting to throttle each other…and then he just _left_.

He did not recognize—and would not have been able to articulate it to another person—that the anger sprang from disappointment, disappointment and a sense of destabilization. First Shepard died—that wasn't her fault, but it tilted his perceptions of the galaxy a bit. Then his father left—marking the second time in Garrus' life that his father had gone away without him. The first time being when he was still small—too small to tag along with Detective Dad.

His life was starting to collapse, and it showed in his on-duty behavior. The frustration and then—which was worse—the insidious shift in the political climate. After everyone made such a big fuss about honoring the dead, about a massive show of 'paying their respects', the Powers That Be had begun to erase Shepard.

Slowly but surely, they were buffing out anything and everything that didn't fit into their perfect little galaxy.

He knew he couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't work on the Citadel with the lies and the omissions grinding the truth down to a sliver. He couldn't bear to keep his mouth shut and his head down when Shepard (and her insanity), Reapers (downplayed to advanced geth technology), or anything in that vein of thought came up—'anything else' usually involved wanting his insight.

He knew it was time to do something in earnest, make some kind of change, when he was cited as the instigator at a barroom brawl.

At Flux, no less.

-J-

Executor Pallin knew there was something wrong with Garrus. Not just a bad habit or personality tick that needed addressing, but something really, truly wrong. It had started to show around the time Antilles Vakarian left C-Sec to be with his wife and daughter.

Now, though, it had exploded into a true problem.

The most unsettling thing was Garrus turning up before his shift was due to start, still bearing the marks of the barroom brawl he'd started two weeks previously.

It was not Garrus' usual bounding into the office, full of pep and vinegar—to use the humanism—with a problem to shout about…

…or, as was also usual, a 'rage-quit'.

Garrus walked sedately into the room, waited for Pallin to finish the call he was taking. Once Pallin could give Garrus his full attention, Garrus set his badge and pistol on the Executor's desk. "I'm done. Paperwork's filled out, and Requisitions has all my equipment."

Garrus? Following regulations to the letter? Pallin knew there was something horribly, dreadfully wrong.

Having said his piece, Garrus wished him a good day, and walked out, unhurried but without any lessening of the sense of…heaviness…that had accompanied him.

The near apathy of the occurrence, the very quietude of Garrus' declarations, was enough to truly unsettle Pallin. 'Soft spoken' had never been a Vakarian trait.

Never.

Had Antilles finally told the boy about Amalthea's condition? That could account for the change in behavior.

After a moment's reflection he was inclined to think this had nothing to do with Garrus' family situation. If Garrus knew, he'd be back on Palaven this very minute.

He wanted to track Garrus down and ask about this—it was so out of character—but something held him back. He wasn't sure what kept him from making inquiries: he wrote it off as the instincts of a longtime lawman warning him of dangerous terrain.

Pallin sighed heavily, wishing his old drinking buddy was there.


	14. Breathe

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Jacob Taylor knew Miranda Lawson better than anyone else on the station. This did not mean much, since most of the people here had hardly ever heard of her before their stint with Project Lazarus.

However, a lot of people were regretting having heard of her.

Everyone knew that, for the past four days, Miranda Lawson had been in a state of blatant agitation, usually described as 'a temper'.

Not everyone realized that Miranda was not _angry—_she was _worried. _There was only one thing that worried Miranda...well, there were two. One was failure, which she took badly. The other, the more pressing, and the one she focused all her energies upon was Lazarus' well being.

Jacob encountered Lazarus _once_, and had comfortably used the pronoun 'it'. Nothing but meat, tubes, and what looked to his untrained eye like wires, all shoved into something like those little aquariums people kept hamsters in.

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief yesterday when Miranda locked herself in the medbay and apparently camped out there. No one had seen her, and he had only spoken to her once, over the radio to remind her that the Boss wanted an update.

Incidentally, _he_ had fielded the call when Miranda shortly refused to come out and felt justified that the Boss would forgive the report being delivered by her second.

This morning, when she had arrived for a late breakfast, she radiated prickly energy which made people hurry along out of her way. Most individuals, unsure of her mood, scattered to their proper tasks or to begin shifts that would not start for a quarter of an hour yet.

Miranda sat down opposite him, toying with her oatmeal.

She only ate oatmeal when she was exhausted and too hungry to really want to eat. It did not happen often, but when one was a biotic observing another biotic, one noticed such things.

And she wasn't even eating it: she was just playing with it, like a cat toying with a mouse it was not inclined to eat. This indicated, too clearly, that she had something on her mind—something not unpleasant. If it was unpleasant she would be crumbling toast or bacon beneath her fingers, as though ripping someone to shreds.

He blinked in surprise: had he really had all that insight pinging around upstairs? He finished his orange juice, chugging it. The realization set precedent for being caught flat-footed and he did not think it was a good sign to be getting jumpy this early in the game.

"You're not going to ask what I'm so pleased about?" Miranda finally teased, once she was sure the cafeteria was empty enough that no one would hear the question.

Jacob, with great dignity, looked up from adding sugar to his coffee. "Last I remember, I was supposed to keep my eyes open, pistol hot, and my mouth _shut_. Besides," he dumped the rest of his sugar into the drink after catching the discreet, sidelong glance which was Miranda's equivalent of embarrassment, "you're _dying _to be asked, and I'm not in a mood to play stump the dummy."

"Ah, Jacob…" Miranda beamed at him.

He held up a hand, but his mouth tried to turn into a wry smile. The smile worked the first time, but only the first time. Fortunately, he could laugh about that first time. "Don't 'ah, Jacob' me. Not gonna go for the bait, Miranda. Not this morning."

For a moment Miranda looked ready to tell him he could wait, and let curiosity work on him a bit, but she did not. Instead, she leaned forward, her blue eyes glittering. She remained silent until she had his full attention. "The subject is _breathing._"

Jacob forgot about taking a sip of his coffee, he forgot about the mug in his hand.

"Took the subject off AR* this morning. It's not full reconstruction, but it's a large step forward."

"Especially seeing as how she hasn't got any _skin _to hold her together."

"A little early to call the subject 'her', and skin comes later." This was a purely professional assessment. That was another thing about Miranda: she shifted from conversation to pragmatic assessments so quickly it was easy to miss the shift and interpret sarcasm or condescension. "I'd invite you to come down and take a look, but it's rather grisly. I've seen murder victims in better condition." Miranda finally took a bite of her oatmeal. It had gone cool, but she plowed through it anyway, sipping her tea every few bites and discreetly washing it around in her mouth to clear the taste (or feel) of cold oatmeal.

Jacob shivered inwardly, though not at the thought of cold oatmeal: he had a strong stomach, but the idea of looking at a breathing pile of hamburger creeped him out. "That'll make the Boss happy." Not that he expected a happy dance and confetti, but if the Boss was happy maybe Miranda would ease up on the rest of the crew.

The pressure to succeed (and to succeed _big_) got to her and she passed it on, usually to people with no way of getting to her level of what he chose to call 'overall competence'.

"I think he _was_ ecstatic: it would be problematic if we couldn't get the subject to breathe on its own."

Of course she would have contacted the Boss before coming down for breakfast. She was meticulous.

"I still think you ought to have grown her some skin before you worried about anything else."

Miranda gave a wicked chuckle. "How are we supposed to work on skeletal and muscular issues with skin getting in our way? I'm not going to grow one just so we can ruin it with scalpel marks. We'll have enough to do when the time comes to give the subject a face and trust me: _no_ woman wants her skin ruined, _particularly_ the skin on her face."

Jacob nodded: who would know better about this issue than Miranda?

-J-

*Not meaning to insult anyone's intelligence, but just in case there's any question: AR is 'artificial respiration'.


	15. Disjointed

Author's Note: just to be clear, this does not take place _immediately_ after 'Breathe'. The general timeframe for this chapter is somewhere in the home stretch of Project Lazarus.

-J-

…she heard something suspiciously like O'Conner's voice, in that wailing tone of mock-despair used when she, Shepard, did something silly. '_Shep-aaaard!"_

"…Miranda…I think she's waking up…"

Shepard heard a grunt of pain which sounded suspiciously like one of her own. The accompanying motion stirred the blood in her veins, forced her nerves to relay information. She had all her limbs, a nose with which to smell stringent isopropyl alcohol and the new-plastic odor of medigel. She had a mouth, full of bad breath and all her teeth.

A face appeared above hers, framed by dark hair, with far too much eyeliner. Blue contacts…they had to be contacts…she looked like a model, not a doctor, even if she wore a white coat. The golden insignia in place of nametag held Shepard's attention. "She's not ready yet, Wilson. Give her the sedative."

Shepard's lungs grew tight, as though recovering from a cold. Her skin went clammy, something wasn't right...

They weren't Alliance. She was in a strange place with strange things being done to her.

She had to get out of here…

Every instinct screamed for her to stop imitating a sick hanar and get loose, escape. She knew what happened when people ended up in places like this, where mad scientists did things with needles…

'Who are you people?' The words were inarticulate, not unlike the groans of husks…

Images started shooting across her mind like searing wires.

Husks, yawning maws, eyes like burning coals, bio-synthetic remnants…it was not enough for the geth to kill organics, they had to mutilate them too

Above the white noise of panic surged the Cipher, crashing like the sea in her ears, the old message warning of the Reapers leaving afterimages on her physical eyes.

"Heart rate still climbing!"

"Shepard," Miranda addressed her directly, putting a hand on Shepard's forehead to keep her from sitting up.

Sporadic bursts of emotions, strong ones, exploded like grenades across Shepard's psyche, emotions not belonging to her dredged up those that _did_, and memories attached to them.

"Don't try to move."

Shepard reached to push Miranda away, but Miranda gently pushing her hand back down to the table. It did not take much effort.

Terror pulsed in her veins as her father's face melted. She would always have trouble seeing his face whole and undamaged.

Hatred burned like acid as she picked off enemies, four-eyed, needle-toothed enemies. It was a civic service.

Her best friend lay in the undergrowth of some forsaken planet, helmet peppered with shrapnel, visor a mess of blood. Gone. Forever.

Battle raged around her, scum of the Terminus Systems pouring in. It was all about civilians. She would not let another Mindoir occur. She'd die first…but she'd do more good by staying alive.

"Just lie still…try to stay calm…" Miranda looked, presumably, towards Wilson.

Her ankle ached, broken tripping down an escarpment towards the end of the Blitz. Sun burned against her skin, endless politicos and officers droning on and on…

Disgust. She was a political pawn again. They offered her a position, but there was no backing, no clout to go with it. She was a Spectre in name only. They did not want her or her people; they just wanted to keep humanity quiet.

Grief. She left a good friend to die in a nuclear blast. She made her choice logically before the choice needed to be made.

But logic was a cold bedfellow.

_He_ wasn't. Her greatest moment of weakness, the only one she did not regret. Faint traces of dark energy rippling around him, and she could touch both living flesh and shimmering energy. She was warm. Safe. Loved.

Shepard's world spun, memory and the Cipher blending as she fell back into horrible crushing black. She twisted, trying to fight the enveloping darkness. The padding beneath her gave and conformed, increasing the sensation of something sucking her under.

_Don't let me drown. _The plea as the Cipher first slammed in the confines of her skull was a whisper and a scream.

"…brain activity is off the charts…"

Shepard's breath wheezed, her lungs on fire. Pain fought back the cold, but only at the surface. It was getting into her bones, into her core. She could not scream. Her body was running out of fight.

She had fought other people's battles for years, and regretted none of it…so why could she not fight her own? And this, the most important of them all: it was a battle for survival.

"Stats pushing into the red zone…it's not working…" Wilson finally showed some inflection, so sure of his assessment.

"Give her another dose," Miranda snapped, still calm, still in control.

Miranda now had to fight to keep Shepard still.

Desperation was strength. Shepard succeeded in a guttural shout. It raked like claws at her throat, but the sound carried.

"_Now_." Miranda gazed down, impassive but as though looking at a child. Was that a hint of real worry?

A sting, something cold pressed against her arm. Shepard choked on her own breath, her heart slowing painfully…

Her breathing grew ragged, her heart was working too slowly. She was dying…she had to be dying…for a moment she had thought she might beat the odds.

No. She was a less troublesome subject if she was dead. Tears seeped from her eyes, trailing back to her ears, cold, as her equilibrium melted.

"Heart rate dropping…" Wilson relayed as darkness began creeping in on the edges of her vision. Had…had these people got hold of her crew as well? The realization she had not considered this before struck her painfully. What kind of leader was she? "…stats falling back into normal range…"

Shepard tried and failed to let out a groan.

"…too close. We almost lost her."

Miranda's face became angry. Amazing what a nasty look that woman had. "I _told_ you your estimates were off." The bite surprised Shepard. You'd think Wilson nearly killed Miranda herself, the way the woman snapped at him. "Run the numbers again."


	16. Shortcoming

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

The subject let out a thin sound of protest, of despair as the sedatives began to take effect. Her labored breathing eased, her eyes went unfocused, the lids came down, muscles relaxed, leaving her wholly inert on the table.

Miranda's eyes jumped to the neural monitoring devices and was glad to find that the subject's brain activity now resembled that of a normal individual. She may have wakened far too early for Miranda's liking, but the premature return to consciousness had ended in what looked like full cognitive function. It was too early to say, but it seemed to her as though the subject had finally 'come back'. The body was nothing without what made it tick—to use the common phrase.

Now that the sudden crisis had passed, Miranda could deal with her own thoughts and emotions. Anger burned like indigestion in her gut, and it took all her self-control to keep it off her face as she turned a blue-eyed, thin-lipped gaze at Wilson, one that managed to convey her disapproval through minimal expression. "Mr. Wilson," she began slowly, "I trust we will not have this sort of miscalculation again."

There would certainly be no more miscalculations: she would check and double check every number from here on in, and if she found one thing that looked wrong, so help her…

She took a deep breath.

"It isn't as though we're running routine procedures, Ms. Lawson."

"I'm well aware of that, but when the suggestion is made that your numbers are off, I expect you to _check_ them, then recheck them, then do it all over again." It took effort not to say '_the whole damn process_ all over again'. She mustn't let temper run roughshod.

She glanced down at the sleeping soldier. Sweat stood out on the subject's forehead but there were no other signs of shock. It was too early; she was lucky the subject's brain function hadn't cut off, hadn't been somehow damaged by the premature waking.

"We've come too far," she continued, more to herself, "to let small mistakes jeopardize the project." She took a deep breath, then, for something to do, took hold of the subject's sheet and shook it out, letting it settle over the sleeping soldier in a more decorous fashion. "Meanwhile, my employer will want a report on this…hiccup. I suggest, while the numbers compute, you prepare one. Believe me: you don't want him to take my word alone." It was as fair a warning as she could give.

-J-

"Problems?"

"Yes," Miranda answered calmly, though she felt anything but. Her eyes narrowed as she studied her employer's face. "There were…errors…in the numbers. I failed to take stringent enough precautions."

"I trust it won't happen again."

Miranda wanted to look away but didn't. All the meticulous surgeries, all the minutia prior to those surgeries, all the painful attention to detail when cooking up the liquid cocktails pumped into the subject, and one little mistake, the one time something slipped…that one mistake had almost crashed the project. The weight of the shortcoming rested more heavily on her shoulders than most people realized.

She knew she rode her team hard, but she also knew that whatever she demanded of them, she demanded more of herself. It had nothing to do with fairness: she was _engineered_ to be above average, and when average was 'some of the best minds in the galaxy'…

The margin for error was very small indeed. Hundredths, thousandths of a decimal point could mean the subject's instant death, utter failure. She couldn't bear that, not after two years, not when they were so close. "We've put too much time and effort into Lazarus. There won't be any more complications." It was a heavy burden to assume but someone had to shoulder it. It had to be her: she didn't trust anyone else to do it right.

"I hope not."

Miranda wanted to flinch at the neutrality of the statement. She didn't make mistakes…she wasn't _supposed_ to make mistakes and she knew it.

"On the positive side, we have more normalized neural function. She definitely showed signs of situational awareness." It was promising if the subject's first response was to try to escape a strange place. It meant some of her training was present. "Sir, now that neurological function shows signs of stability, I want to discuss a control mechanism—"

"Absolutely not."

"We needn't _tell_ her about it. The sub—Shepard is dangerous; we shouldn't forget that."

"Can you guarantee implanting it won't cause some sort of change? _Guarantee _it, Miranda. _No _deviation from the original?"

Miranda gritted her teeth. "No, I can't guarantee it." She wished she could. Her attempt to move the conversation away from her own recent shortcomings had failed, bringing her right back to face them. She wished she _could_ guarantee it, if only to have some certainty to offer.

"Start assembling her team. Bring the doctor up to date, she'll take over as the attending physician. Shepard won't stand for one of ours. Or," he smiled humorlessly, "it's to be hoped not."

Miranda nodded her comprehension. If the subject simply accepted Cerberus as a 'friend' things would be easier. If she didn't, it would mean things were normal. "I'll do both those things…and take the necessary precautions to prevent anything else from going wrong."

"We're very close, Miranda."

Miranda merely nodded at the 'don't jump the gun' warning. As if she would.

What she really needed was a hot soak and a hotter cup of tea. What she would get, she thought sourly as her employer terminated the connection, was a long night—probably the first of many—of checking and double checking other people's work, of preparing the information the subject's new physician would need, and more besides.

She couldn't delegate: someone else might make stupid mistakes. She couldn't afford that.

The old adage 'if you want something done, do it yourself' clanged in her head as she strode out of the communications suite.


	17. Doubt

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

"So what's the big deal?" Miranda Lawson made Jeff Moreau nervous. Very nervous. It wasn't that she could break every bone in his body—a nine-year-old could do that. It wasn't even that she could break every bone in his body one at a time with her biotics and give him that enigmatic smile. It was that he never knew if she was laughing at him, or with him, or not laughing at all. Usually it was the last one.

"We might be needing your delicate piloting maneuvers here soon." He knew better than to ask where 'here' was. She seemed to like treating skilled people like show dogs, and he resented it.

Even if he was the best. He had begun to have niggling doubts about that; the best would not have gotten Shepard killed. Even as the thought flitted across his mind, the image of Shepard slamming the button that sealed him off, sealed her out, caught like an afterimage in his mind's could almost imagine her eyes, neither green nor blue but painfully vivid, narrowed in determination. It wasn't just for his sake, or the sake of her duty that she'd done it—those both were factors. She also owed it to a dead friend to keep him alive. She always did take those honor/duty things so far…he had never resented it before that day.

Two years, seven days.

"Well, I can see you're not in a question-asking mood—but you might want to be. You're about to be reassigned."

She loved watching people squirm, but Joker rarely obliged. "Yeah?" He was not sure what Cerberus wanted with him—they wanted a good pilot, yes, but it seemed to him they had gone to an extreme to _get_ him. And Chakwas. He could think of a hundred innocuous reasons for their presence, but something told him there were sharks in the water.

And Miranda Lawson was one of them.

"To the point, I like that. Saves time." She was obsessive about time, or seemed that way. Joker could not honestly say he had much to do with Miranda, but what little he did have left him deeply uneasy. He preferred talking to Jacob Taylor—Miranda's second-in-command.

But Taylor was eerie too—way too nice for a guy who knew so many ways to kill people. Taylor was Williams' kind of people. Apart from the Cerberus thing.

"This is a heavily encoded channel, Mr. Moreau, so I trust you'll hold your tongue about what I'm about to show you."

Deadpanning, Joker pinched his tongue between thumb and forefinger. Nyah. Not very mature, perhaps, but certainly literal. And contrary. He was in a mood to be contrary.

"Perfect—can you pilot a ship and do that at the same time?" But he did not get to answer, because Miranda switched to a live feed—or it looked like a live feed.

His stomach dropped to his boots, as he momentarily wondered if this was some insanely cruel joke, or if maybe he had finally cracked and was really in a padded room somewhere.

Lying on a table, beneath a white sheet, was Lieutenant Commander Jalissa A. Shepard. Not a burned wreck of a corpse, or the remains of remains, but a real, living, recognizable woman, pale as ever, breathing softly, evenly as if with sleep. Her hair was all wrong, the right shade of brown but boyishly short, as if someone had sheared it off for reasons unguessed.

Or regrown it, as though she'd undergone and moved past something like the chemotherapy of long ago. There were visible marks on her face, gashes almost. Orange light glowed in the cracks of her skin, sickening, almost ominous.

Was there _anyone_ in this galaxy _not_ spitting on Shepard's name?

"What is…_that_…?" Cerberus, with Commander Shepard…it was bad. Oh, this was really bad—some kind of clone or doppelganger…was that what he was here for? To serve as a corroborator so Cerberus could…could what?

"'That'?" Miranda's voice came over the comm. but her picture did not reappear. "'_That'_ would be a 'she', and who does she look like, Mr. Moreau?"

"Looks like a dead woman," he balked, "and I'm not doing anything to pass a fake off as the real thing." A cross of arms and dubious resistance to whatever plan waited in the wings.

Miranda's face returned, sharing the screen with the image of the sleeping Shepard. "That's over four billion credits of the real thing, Mr. Moreau," her expression depicted paramount displeasure. "The same face, same mind, same morals. Or so we hope. You didn't think we went through all the trouble to recruit you just because you're one of the best pilots in the Alliance, did you?"

Joker grimaced. He knew it.

But his eyes drifted back to Shepard; on her end, Miranda zoomed in on Shepard's face.

She looked different asleep…though Joker had to work not to let himself fall into a lull of complacency, to just…_trust _that Miranda was telling the truth, that this was, _really was_ Shepard.

But it was hard to remember. He had never seen her face so free from care, without creases about her eyes from that intense look she usually wore. Sleep did not make her look younger, but it did make her look…well, peaceful. Untroubled. Someone upon whose shoulders the galaxy did not weigh heavily.

"I don't believe it." At least his tone came out with conviction.

"It doesn't matter what you believe, Mr. Moreau. You'll be piloting for her soon, so I suggest you find a way to hide that disbelief. She's got a busy schedule and I don't want it complicated by her mistrusting her old friend Joker." Miranda glanced over, presumably at her own feed into Shepard's suite. "We'll schedule a pickup in the next twelve to fourteen days, Mr. Moreau. I suggest you have yourself sorted out by then."

Miranda cut both the communications line and the live feed, leaving Joker to slouch before the terminal.


	18. Hope

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Dr. Karin Chakwas was not surprised when Miranda Lawson called her via an encrypted channel in the Cerberus network one evening. Something had happened with Joker, something he remained very tight-lipped about, though he hinted darkly that Miranda might be calling or coming by soon, and that she—Karin—should be very, _very_ careful.

"Good evening, Doctor," Miranda's expression was pleasant, as always, but Karin knew a mask when she saw one.

"Miss Lawson." She never used the word 'operative' if she could: it made Karin feel as though she was enabling delusions.

"There's going to be a change in your directives, soon, and it's one I think you'll approve." On-screen, Miranda set down several datapads, as though just arriving at her desk.

"Really? And what might that be?"

"I'm sending you some of the files—not all, I wouldn't want you to get bogged down."

Upon opening the files, Karin began scanning through them, her expression going from dubious to startled, then awed. "Is this a mock up…or have you actually done this?" She could not be sure what she felt, if she was appalled at the idea that someone had the audacity to try such a reconstruction…or awe at same.

"This is certainly not a mock up. The subject is within weeks of full functionality. We're waiting for the worst of the scarring to heal."

Karin read more slowly as she found the words 'bio-synthetic fusion', and 'results show promise'. "And who was your guinea pig? A volunteer I hope."

"Not exactly."

"So why show this to me? Surely you are not looking for my approval." Karin continued examining the records. There was more to this, there had to be. Miranda was very clear that Karin and Joker were recruited on very specific terms, with very specific conditions: Cerberus planned to fight the Reapers when no one else did.

Yet, Karin always suspected there were other, very specific, reasons…

"No, though I might just get that. You haven't asked the all-important question, Doctor. I'm a little disappointed."

Karin looked away from the data. "Who was the subject, if not a volunteer?" She had known Miranda wanted to be asked, but had no intention of humoring the Cerberus agent until obliquely prompted. Too many people humored Miranda, if truth be told.

"As you'll be the attending physician in a couple weeks, I'll send you the medical files. You'll surely want to familiarize yourself with them."

Karin pursed her lips as the files transferred to her console, but the expression rapidly turned to shock as the medical file mug shot of Commander Jalissa A. Shepard stared blankly at her. It was an uncensored, corrected version Shepard's file. She knew it was corrected because Shepard's birth year had been adjusted to account for her having slipped into the military despite being underage at the time. Appended to the last notes _she_ knew about—those covering Shepard's punctured lung, the restoration of the thin skin over her knuckles, various abrasions, burns, and hematoma—were page after page of notations beginning with a full documentation of what was _wrong_ with the corpse.

A corpse they could barely _call_ a corpse: there was not much left between suffocation in space and reentry through Alchera's atmosphere.

Karin had seen a number of gruesome, grisly, horrific things in her time with the Alliance. Her time as a doctor let her filter out the nausea one might get from some of the more detailed descriptions—lurid descriptions. It was one thing if this had been a nameless, faceless volunteer, but the blackened husk had once been known to her.

"She'll want someone she trusts overseeing her health, recovery, and…and handling any complications that might arise," Miranda declared.

"And you actually did this?" Karin asked grimly. It was too much to hope for, it was always hard to see one of her soldiers die, but at the same time it seemed heartless, unethical to try to wrench Shepard back. There was a good chance that the _subject_ would not even _be_ Shepard.  
"We hope so: the subject…"

"Her name," Karin spat with a soft venom Miranda apparently had not expected, "is _Shepard_. Jalissa, if you know her well." For along moment Miranda and Karin had a silent staring contest, which Miranda, unusually, lost.

"If all goes according to plan, Mr. Moreau will pick her up in a couple weeks, and you'll be aboard to…reassure her she's not surrounded by the enemy."

Karin did not respond to the statement, but continued. "You do know that when people have their brains…tampered with…they most often do not come out of the hospital the same people they went in as?"

"It's a very real possibility, which is why you and Mr. Moreau are so important. You'll know if anything's off. Believe me, Doctor, no one here wants Shepard to be Shepard more than I do."

Karin closed her eyes, grimacing. "And why would that be, if I may ask? I was under the impression there was no love lost between Cerberus and Shepard. She's caused your group a great deal of trouble."

"She has, and if she put her mind to it, she would _excel _at it," Miranda answered neutrally, "but things change, and you know why we need her. They're big, mechanical, and headed this way." Miranda heaved a short sigh of 'this is not getting us anywhere', before her image vanished, replaced by what Karin could only assume was a live feed.

On a medical table, face grotesquely distorted by...cracks…in the flesh from which orange light glowed, was the body, the _breathing_ body, of Commander Shepard.

"We're taking no chances, we're sparing no expense. Believe me, Doctor, Cerberus isn't her enemy."

Karin did not responded to this, either, but watched the sleeping organism. She would not refer to it as anything more than a biological construct…not until she knew whether or not there was anything of the marine she remembered in there…

…and yet she could not help but hope.


	19. Red Light

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Jacob Taylor groaned silently as he flopped facedown onto his bunk. Being part of Project Lazarus' upper echelon had its perks, like his own room, but it was one of those weeks when working with Miranda was a painful, frustrating experience.

Miranda was notoriously obsessive over security, doubly so with this project, so while she tended to give that unfortunate officer a lot of crap, there were benefits. Not always enough of the latter to outweigh the former, but that was life.

Miranda was the least of his problems, however. The week's history of minor glitches, hitches, and snags did not leave a security officer much time for anything but _work_, hence why, at the end of his shift, he fell into bed with his light armor still on. It was not comfortable sleepwear, but he would rather deal with a little discomfort and feel like a turtle than find himself compromised.

That and he was not sure he could get his fingers to work the fastenings right. He was _that_ tired. Even the fear that the Lazarus Cell was compromised finally gave way to one of the most basic human needs: sleep. The traitor, if there really was one, better hope he was never found out_. _Jacob was not sure if his wish for the individual to take a short walk out an airlock was in earnest or not, but when Miranda got going…

The point where he suggested—very carefully and tactfully—that she stop _driving_ him like an ornery cow was fast approaching. At least she had grace enough to find someone else to ream when he finally snarled back at her. It didn't happen often, which might account for the fact that it worked when it did.

He had not realized how hot an amp could get until he found himself using one near-continuously over the course of several days. Or maybe it was the fact it was a new amp, in more ways than one. Whatever the reason, it was like the reverse of spacer's syndrome: when the feet were cold, the rest of the person was cold. In this case, when the amp and jack got hot, the rest of him felt uncomfortably overheated.

Being that hot made it hard to eat; being a biotic and working for Miranda….well. At least there were protein shakes. Not as good as real food—and even in deep space employees had real food—but when real food made you queasy…

Miranda's mood that week had her ready to sink claws into anyone who crossed her. Not unusual in and of itself, but with Lazarus nearing completion she was not about to take any risks concerning the project. Especially not now that things were acting up. Eight weeks ago, the project nearly failed. He wasn't clear on the why or the how, but the whole station kept its collective head down as if bracing for a tornado.

Her bad mood over that had still not wholly burned out, and Wilson was the one catching most of it. The man had already complained that if this was not a breakthrough project, a first in the field of medicine, Lazarus would lose her chief medical officer and then where would Miranda be?

Obviously Wilson hadn't figured it out yet.

What few people knew was that Miranda was working doubly hard to ensure that there were no further glitches. She was hard on everyone, but Jacob knew she was harder on herself. She just never let on.

He nearly fell out of bed when alarms suddenly began blaring. All lights shifted to emergency red, pulsing as klaxons screamed. He had no time to do anything other than get to his feet and grab his pistol before things started happening.

"Jacob!" Miranda's voice snapped in his ear as he reached the door. He charged his pistol, praying the main medlab was uncompromised. Red lights and klaxons on this station, or any station, indicated a weapons-hot situation. _Especially_ on _these_ sorts of stations. When things went well, everything was sunshine and roses, when they went bad…it was more like grapefruit-sized hail and thresher maws.

Then one had to worry about being thrown under the bus.

"Yeah?"

People ran this way and that, to action stations or the armory, calling to one another or swearing at the unknown situation. Hadn't he told the security teams at least twice in the past day to keep their side arms with them _at all times_? The project was nearing completion, a couple weeks at most and that was considered a pessimistic timeline. This close to completion, they could not afford errors or mistakes.

Someone's butt was going to be on a platter when the situation came under control. He would see to it personally, and not because Miranda would be breathing down his neck.

"Get down to the medlab and make sure nothing happens to the subject." 'The subject', Miranda never referred to her as anything else. She was not meat and tubes anymore…

"I'm on it." Jacob did a quick about face, hurrying through the halls. At first, he thought the security mechs were moving to take control of the situation…right up until they opened fire on him. Jacob's heart sank as his shields took the first few bullets, before he could take cover. "Miranda! The mechs're malfunctioning!"

Miranda's mumble was probably 'tell me something I _don't_ know', but he wasn't certain. "Just punch through them, and get to the medlab. I've put too much time and effort into this to have it blown all to…" Her sentence died away into a muttered curse he did not quite catch.

Miranda was not in the habit of failing, which made her one of the best. He did not want to be the person who had started all this trouble. Miranda would take this personally. _Especially _if anything so much as bruised the subject.

He winced, made a mental note: don't call Lazarus _the subject _to her face.


	20. Pressure

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Miranda Lawson gritted her teeth as she severed the connection with Jacob. He could protect the subject, _if_ he could get to her. There was no better man for security, or a babysitting job. Better still, he knew the term 'babysitting' was not an insult. There was no one she trusted more to keep the Lazarus Project from failing utterly, even if doing so meant long hours keeping an eye on a close-to-comatose woman.

_Especially_ since, without that close-to-comatose woman, the project would fail. She could not abide failure. It was not something she was in the habit of doing, and she intended to keep it that way. Especially now.

If there was someone alive to question after this, she was going to perform the interrogation—minus Jacob's presence—the mole would to spill his guts and she would warp those guts (and the rest of him) into a pellet, to be be swept up with the rest of the garbage.

However, with the situation deteriorating rapidly, such bloodthirsty thoughts burned off quickly. This was no time to get emotional, this was the time to be perfect.

Hotspots of mechs kept popping up as she navigated through the security net.

Jacob suspected she watched over his shoulder, but he said little about it, nor could he prove it. Miranda watched over _everyone's_ shoulders. Fires began to start—probably triggered by gunfire—personnel kept falling off the grid…it was a nightmare. Nightmares did not frighten Miranda; they just made her mad. Pursing her lips, she turned to the other console.

For a long moment, however, her gaze lingered over the indications that the mechs were cleaning up Jacob's security team and everyone else as well. He would have contacted her when he reached the medbay…and he had not had enough time to do so, even at a full sprint through an empty station.

Jacob was not a sprinter.

She did not want to do this, but she had to. She was not going to let all that time, effort, and trouble be gunned down on a medical table. Losing a couple weeks of regeneration time would mean a lot of discomfort for the subject, but better discomfort than being dead.

If the subject was all she was cracked up to be, she could hold out until Jacob arrived. Not the sort of field test Miranda would have liked to conduct.

"Commander." She spoke into the communications line joining her office to the rest of the station. "Commander, get out of that bed, this facility is under attack." With a deep breath, Miranda remotely deactivated the steady flow of sedatives keeping the subject in a restful state. Psychological profiles indicated the subject would immediately fall back on SERE training if left on this station while conscious. It was easier to keep her sedated.

There were advantages to being the detail-oriented, worry-prone, failsafe-demanding head of the Lazarus Cell. Remote access to the medlab being one of them. She never blessed her own obsessive nature as much as she did now.

The subject twitched, one hand moving sluggishly to touch her face. The fact that she came to so quickly, with such minimal prompting made Miranda shake her head. The last time the subject came to, the subject's neural activity had exploded uncontrollably. It was as though the woman could not wait to get back on her feet.

A good thing, but so unpredictable. It was Jacob who came up with the theory that Miranda was inclined to agree with: the sudden awakening and burst of neural activity was the Prothean Cipher the subject had supposedly acquired on Feros.

'_An explosion of data like that? It'd wake anyone up and knock them through a loop.'_ Another reason for having Jacob around. He was a soldier and would better know how a fellow soldier thought. That would be handy once the subject was moving around, if they could get the subject to trust him.

But that was all just plan and theory until they got out of this mess. Through the feed into the medlab Miranda watched the subject sit up, wincing as she did so, shaking off the sedatives. "You're not back to a hundred percent, but I need you to get moving."

The subject gingerly slid off the bed, appreciating that 'facility under attack' meant 'time for action'. It seemed as though she was used to working through a haze of pain.

Thank goodness, Miranda growled to herself, this had not happened a few weeks ago.

And _where was Jacob_? He should have been there by now…but she could not let the subject lie around, a sitting duck for whatever wave of mechs got close enough to her to start shooting. Not that the subject was armed, or armored. Still, better awake than not. At least she could take cover until Jacob got there.

Why couldn't the subject have been a biotic? Biotics were never unarmed.

Miranda glanced at her tracking consol. Mechs moving in…both on her position and on the subject's.

"I need a gun." The subject's voice, gravelly and slurred, came across the feed.

"You're in a medlab. There aren't any." But the subject had appropriated an omni-tool after several moments of foraging. Not a gun, but the next best thing.

The subject's specialized training was combat and technology. She should be able to do _some_ damage with just the omni-tool. Especially against mechs.

Time to see if the subject was everything she used to be. It would be a shame to put a bullet in her head, if she failed to measure up. Especially after all this work.

It boded well when the subject took out the first mechs as they smashed their way into the medbay, before retrieving a pistol from one of the sizzling corpses. If she could get the subject started toward the shuttles, the subject would eventually meet up with Jacob. He could get her the rest of the way and she, Miranda, could join them...

-J-

*SERE: Survive, Escape, Resist, Evade

**There are no 'weapons and armor in the locker' because it would be just _way _too convenient.


	21. Breakout

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Shepard woke up, her muscles tightening as her brain screamed: WARNING! WE'VE GOT KLAXONS!

Should it worry her that waking up in pain was a good thing?

As her muscles tightened in response to words she did not actively process (warnings of imminent attack), she gasped, one hand flying to her midriff. The pain was unlike anything she had ever felt from that area of her body before.

She did not pull up her shirt to find out what kind of injury caused that kind of pain. Rolling off the padded medtable, she cast around, her mind hazy but not as though from drugs. There was only a sense of vague nausea, independent of the nausea of pain, hinted at sedatives…but nothing stronger than could probably be found at the NEX.

As far as gear went, she slipped back into survival mode, there was nothing immediately useful…and nothing but medical scrubs to stand between her and whatever hostilities were going on. It was too much to hope for a weapon and armor to be conveniently laid by for her use.

"I need a gun." This to the disembodied voice with the grating accent. A gun would be nice, or at worst a combat knife…but she hated the idea of getting that close to someone in her current state.

"It's a medbay."

"Docs gotta need guns, too…" Any Alliance ship's doctor knew to have a pistol in the medbay: the time might come when they had to shoot someone to protect their patients. Dr. Chakwas kept hers under her desk, in the immediate area where she usually worked.

Someone had, however, left his or her omni-tool on a table. Well, it was better than nothing. Shepard clipped it around her arm, fumbling with the unfamiliar interface.

She only vaguely heard the warning about killer mechs before she was acting. Someone was trying to kill her. Nothing unusual in _that_; a lot of people would like her dead. They would throw parties and everything.

She moved as far back from the door as she could, grateful for every ounce of training the Marine Corps ever provided. Within seconds she had two tech mines in hand. Taking cover behind one of the med tables she waited, a powercutter whining as it sliced into the door.

In the ensuing stillness, her midriff—and her _face_—both further protested her prior movements. A check with her fingers revealed damage to her cheek she could neither begin to describe nor begin to visualize. Horrific thoughts of _corrosion_, _disintegration, _of having been mauled flickered in her mind like a stubborn lighter's flame. She was not vain, but she had gotten comfortable with her face, and would have preferred it stay in one piece…

The doors groaned as metal hit metal, mechs—or so said the guiding voice—forcing them open. Shepard jumped to her feet while the mechs were distracted with forcing entry. She would have needed them to get through the door anyway: some lockdown procedures sealed off a medbay to protect the occupants. Protecting a medbay was rarely an easy matter—hence the need for doctors to carry sidearms, she thought savagely.

The first tech mine hit the ground just short of the mechs, who all stopped to process the foreign object. Shepard quickly dropped back behind the table: only an idiot would stand around like a lawn ornament.

_Pfft. _The mechs gurgled and stuttered as their optics blew out.

One of the rules of fighting geth: they can't shoot you if they can't see you. Go for the optics, as resident geth expert Tali had dictated. Security mechs were nothing like geth; by comparison, they were much easier to fight, like veggie zombies but without the mess and with more polite gabble.

The second mine landed amidst the mechs as they tried to work around their sudden impairment—and as their peers behind them tried to move to the fore of their damaged fellows to continue pursuit of the one organic present.

The electrical surge sizzled with a sound similar to a charging pistol before processors blew out.

Professional pride welled up within her, bringing warmth and strength back to wimpy-feeling limbs: even when caught flat-footed and without her own equipment she could still fry a mech without straining herself or whatever limited resources she had access to.

Shepard checked the room carefully, but she knew what she was doing when she lobbed tech mines: none of the mechs still functioned, blackened optics and singe marks on their heads evidencing the kind of damage they had sustained. She waited a few more seconds in case anything exploded more violently, but nothing of the sort happened.

It was one of the early lessons any N with tech leanings learned: _do not walk up to disabled _anything, _if it might _explode.

With a grim expression, she separated a pistol from one of the mechs before doubling back into the medbay—to the consternation of her disembodied guide. Some people might be all right with running around a strange place with a gun and an omnitool alone, but _she_ was not. Since she was the one doing the running around with said limited gear…forgive her, but she wanted to make sure she had a little more available than bullets and tech mines.

After all, she had no armor, no shields.

No cloth medbags, but she could modify a pillowcase into her makeshift messenger bag. Into this went extra clips and ammunition from the ruined mechs, as well as liberated medigel. It was while arranging her new resources into the makeshift messenger bag that she noticed (but paid little attention to) the yellow-orange mark across her abdomen, delineating where she'd stumbled into the counter.

She wrote it off as some spill on a worktop, not noticing that for a few moments the stain continued to spread. Without the presence of blood there was no need to notice. Not when she was finally breaking out of this uncomfortable corner.


	22. Fight Or Flight

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Fear and frustration pulsed in Shepard's mind, keeping time with her pulse as she navigated the station: it seemed to her that every time she got close enough to hear a person's voice, see some organic, the individual as always on the wrong side of a heavy pane of plastiglass—plastiglass proof against her pistol's bullets.

The sight of heavy mechs mowing down more people in those strange black-and-white uniforms fueled her frustration: how could such a military-styled complex be so unprepared for technological malfunction? The answer was clear enough to her: they weren't really military. They just liked the look.

More smoke drifted past her nostrils. Why weren't whatever fire protocols present engaging? Had someone deliberately sabotaged them as well as the mechs? The processor of one of the mechs she'd downed told her very little: it was operating under properly assigned orders, which meant someone had gone in and changed the programming manually. Someone with an override code; changing a mech's parameters was not a difficult task. The average Joe had to be able to re-task a mech, even one of these. She recognized a LOKI mech when she saw one, but these looked updated. A new season's model, but that couldn't be right. Even if they were specially manufactured for this organization…there were integral differences that should not be.

She shook her head sharply, disquiet completely independent of her situation beginning to gnaw at the pit of her stomach.

The omnitool wasn't a very good one, certainly not as powerful as the one she owned—though her tech's mind indicated that while she knew the brand it was…subtly different…in several ways from what she expected to see. Nonetheless, the only thing she could think of was to find the central control hub for these mechs.

She didn't know where the central hub was, she admitted as she stopped to lean on a wall, panting with exertion. Not knowing made doing something constructive more difficult. Her lungs felt like limp balloons, and her midriff ached in a way she couldn't describe. In short, she felt like a civilian armchair commando out playing weekend warrior with a cadre of N-operatives.

Not that the war games held at various 'Farms' and 'uncharted' worlds were ever open to the public. If she survived this, she was definitely going to apply for leave to go 'play' with her fellow operatives. Surely that didn't count as a vacation…

She gave a low grunt as dizziness swirled her brain like a martini in a glass. Vacations? Playing weekend warrior at some Farm? She was out of shape, body _and_ mind.

She forced herself upright, not liking the implications.

Mech hub. She had to find the mech hub. To do that, she needed a computer, a VI, some kind of interface that would let her into the local system. If she could get directions, she could do _something_—something more than run around like a lab rat in a maze.

She pushed herself off the wall, swallowed hard, set her mouth in a thin line and began trotting along again, weapon ready to bring to firing position. She had no way of knowing what was past the next door, or the next blind turn: she wasn't paid to miss, but she also wasn't paid to make mistakes.

Particularly mistakes that necessitated the use of medigel on civilians.

A faint shout came up the corridor, accompanied by the pop-pop of small arms fire and a screeching sound—metal on metal.

Shepard forced herself to picked up her pace.

Around a corner, through a door, and she found the voice's source: a sturdily build man just dropping back down behind one of the plastiglass half walls that served the dual purpose of looking stylish while providing some protection. Clearly he didn't trust the plastiglass' durability, for a biotic field shivered around him as he scrunched himself as low as he could go without compromising his ability to pop up and retaliate.

They stood, she realized, on a kind of overlook. It was probably an aesthetic choice of floor plan, but it worked in the favor of the defenders now. Across the open space that looked out onto the lower floor (probably _several_ floors, though she did not take time to investigate) were the sounds of mechs she could not quite see.

She could see three from where she stood, as yet unobserved by the human combatant. A biotic—that would be useful. _If_ he didn't try shooting at her—she was not going to assume anything at this juncture…but she was inclined to assume that humans were good and mechs were bad. It was a simplistic outlook, but in lieu of having no other information...

Shepard took a few jogging steps, had a single moment in which she was completely unprotected but during which she could see the whole of the other side of the outlook. Her mind counted in a flash the number of mechs present. She spotted that the biotic had warped the door behind the mechs, but that more of the malfunctioning monstrosities were trying to cut their way through the ruined metal. With a grunt of effort—that was partly to hide a grunt of pain—she threw a handful of tech mines, haphazard, across the room. They landed in a disorderly array, but fizzled or exploded as dictated by their programming.

She hit the ground in a combat roll—which turned into a combat sprawl, she thought dryly.

She found herself almost nose-to-nose with the biotic, who looked genuinely shocked to see her. The stale smell of biotics pressed to their limits hung around him. Whoever he was, whatever he was doing here, he'd been under combat stress for some time. How long she didn't know: her only experience with human biotics was Alenko and, professionally speaking, he was one in a million.

"Shepard?" The biotic's surprise to see her would have been almost comical under other circumstances.

"Shoot first! Questions later!"


	23. Tiger

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

"Shepard?" Jacob had to remember not to let his jaw drop. His first impression, during the split-second he spared for one, was profound. He'd heard Shepard likened to a tiger on several occasions, when she'd been the topic of discussion amongst his cohorts or when she showed up on the news, but he'd never really believed it. For the first part his cohorts all had it on hearsay, for the second part _everyone_ tried to compose themselves with dignity and decorum while in view of a reporter's camera.

"Shoot first! Questions later!" With that, she popped up over the barrier, let off a few rounds in the general direction of two of the most damaged mechs and collapsed again.

He saw it now. Her face was rosy from exertion, which made those weird eyes seem to glow, standing out like coals in her eye sockets. It was not the eyes, or even the way her lips kind of curled back from her teeth that gave the impression 'tiger'. It was the contained ferocity in her movements and the surge from staying behind cover to action and dropping back to safety. Everything about her screamed that if she came at you, she would hit you and take you to the ground where she would proceed to rip you apart.

And she wasn't even wearing armor. Or maybe it was _because_ she had no armor that she was so…on fire.

All this passed through his mind in a few seconds. As soon as she dropped to the ground. Hastily manufacturing more tech mines with her omnitool, he made to jump up.

"Oi!" She grabbed him by the shoulder, bony fingers digging in, "just pull them and slam them into the next floor! It's faster!"

So that was an N. He'd been thinking of the battleground in three dimensions, yes, but the idea of using the terrain itself as a weapon—or part of one—hadn't occurred to him. Yes, he'd used the floor in combat before...

...it was like he'd gotten stuck thinking in a grid of nine cubes, three rows of three. Shepard, on the other hand, seemed to think in an actual cube, three levels of nine squares.

Shepard released his shoulder, holding the mines in readiness.

Jacob jumped up, yanked the mechs forward so hard they flopped head-over-heels when they hit the balustrade, then sent them plummeting down to the next floor.

"Give these a push!" Shepard was on her feet in a second, throwing her next barrage of tech mines at the door across the room.

Jacob scrambled to obey, caught off-balance by how fast the battleground was coming under control.

He'd never worked with an N-operative before, and he was beginning to wish he wasn't now. He didn't like being made to feel like an amateur. But that was just pride and there was no place for it. Besides, this was supposed to be Shepard: she was supposed to make everyone feel like an amateur.

Right?

With a gasp, a gulp, and several heaving breaths, Shepard slumped to the ground. "Name and rank," she panted, her voice steady, if a little hoarse.

Jacob fell back on the familiarity of the question. "Jacob Taylor, Chief of Security. I thought you were still a work in progress…" The import began to catch up with him, now that insane mechs no longer had his nearly undivided attention. Things must be worse than he'd thought if Miranda had Shepard up and running around.

She seemed to dismiss or not notice the work in progress remark. Jacob was instantly glad: now was not the time to explain things to her…and he'd better start thinking how to explain a couple things that would inevitably come up. Or, rather, how to sidestep a couple of things. Let her find out she was on a Cerberus station and cooperation might go out the window.

"We need to get to the central hub. I can probably fry the mechs'—what?"

"You're leaking." It was the best he could come up with, and it was true. He knew very well what that orange mess on her shirt was, though apparently she did not. He hoped she wouldn't think to check…that was on the list of things Miranda had better explain.

Shepard touched the mess, then shook her head. "No blood—I must've leaned up against something when I was getting out of the medbay. You work with Miranda?"

"Yeah, she's the boss."

"Have you heard from her?"

"Not recently."

Shepard bit her lip. "Okay—you're security, get me to the mechs' control hub. I'll see if I can hack in—""

"No way. The station's been compromised. I'm getting you to the evac shuttles." He was chief of security after all, he'd better start acting like it! Miranda would kill him if Shepard took any more damage than she already had. That leak looked pretty gruesome from here…

"_No_…"

"My standing orders are to conduct you to the nearest evac shuttle."

Shepard's expression flickered.

Jacob seized on that momentary hesitation. Standing orders were something Shepard would understand, and 'standing orders' could be used as a very effective brick wall, one against which he could place his back and one with which he could deflect questions he did not want to answer.

Some people might see this was cowardly at worst, wimpy as best, but Jacob knew better. It was necessary. He didn't like dodging issues like this, but it was necessary. Seeing Shepard in person…Miranda would have a better chance of dealing with Shepard, if Shepard got her hackles up. "Security officer," he pointed to himself, "work in progress," he pointed at her. "You can chew on Miranda if you don't like it." _That_ would be something to see.

Shepard pursed her lips, then a very faint, wry smile crossed them and she nodded once. "Your station, your show, Officer Taylor." It visibly cost her something to defer to him, but the necessity was obvious…and it was basic courtesy. Shepard had not gotten to her position in life by challenging other people's authority or throwing her weight around for the sake of being recognized as an authority figure.

-J-

*I don't normally use AN space for this, but as I lack any other way to communicate with an anonymous reviewer...

...you've got a what-if, which is where fiction usually starts. My recommendation to you is this: write out in points your ideas on the subject (pen-and-paper, computer, whatever's easiest for you). Then start asking how and why questions for each point you started with. Answer those how/why questions, and keep an eye for more than will open up. The idea is to be able to converse about the topic and not have to fall back on 'I don't know'. If there's anything else, please PM me.


	24. Alert

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Wilson did not have to feign pain as the pistol went off in his hand. The slug buried itself in his leg, sending his mind almost white with it.

Being shot was a first for him. He tried to calm his breathing, to force his mind to compartmentalize the pain—but it didn't work. He knew there was a reason he had not gone into the military.

But the pain was worth salvaging this operation: Miranda's obsessive control asserted after Shepard's premature waking, followed by Shepard's uncanny ability to survive left him one option and one option only…

…the problem was Taylor. Shepard might be formidable, but she still needed of a lot of work. Taylor on the other hand, while not the sharpest tool in the shed when it came to sniffing out traitors, would not hesitate to pull the trigger if Shepard's survival was threatened.

Taylor would follow Miranda's lead on this one.

The door hissed open, Shepard leading the way, her scavenged pistol moving left, right, then down at him for a moment. As Taylor slid in after her, she glanced around again.

"Bastards got me in the leg," Wilson hissed as Taylor knelt, examining the wound.

Shepard looked around again, then knelt herself, producing a tube of medigel from the makeshift satchel, hanging like a messenger bag. She handed the tube to Taylor, eyes still roving.

She was not wearing gloves, after all.

"You were there when I woke up the first time." Her words sounded as though her mouth was somewhat numb. That would wear off, if she lived long enough.

"Yeah…" he grunted as Taylor accepted a bandage, and yanked the binding tight.

Shepard got to her feet, still peering around the room, weapon at the ready.

Wilson's stomach went cold when Shepard glanced down at him. Those luminous eyes fixed on his, studied the dead crewmen nearby, then shifted back. The chill in his guts came from the realization that _she knew_. Yet she gave no _real_ indication...maybe he was imagining it?

"Up you get." She grabbed him by one arm and dragged him to standing, careful to keep all his weight went on his good leg.

"Never expected you to save my life…I guess we're even."

She said nothing, but stalked over to recover the clips from the sidearms of the dead, swearing softly about 'can't believe those damn thermal clips took'. Of course: they were just starting to phase those in, when she was alive.

"I thought maybe I could shut down the security mechs. Whoever did this knew what they were doing: they fried the whole system, it's completely irreversible." It had better be. It would take more than Shepard or Miranda (or their tech experience pooled together) to fix it.

He knew what he was doing.

Shepard handed him a pistol, grip first, but gave no indication of suspicion this time.

That worried him, and he was sure she would make him go first. And here he thought a paragon like Shepard would be a lot stupider…trusting, infernally convinced there was no place for treachery in a situation like this. Gullible—like the usually oh-so-observant Taylor.

"We didn't ask what you were doing here. You're bio-wing, you're not supposed to have security mech clearance anyway," Taylor frowned.

"I was trying to help!" Wilson protested, sagging against the nearest wall for support. "Besides, I was _shot, _how do you account for _that_?"

Shepard's eyes flicked to him, and he was once again confirmed in his suspicions: she _knew_ he was lying. He wasn't imagining it. It would logically follow if he was lying about being shot by mechs, then he might be lying about other things.

There were, after all, no mech corpses. Taylor had not yet noticed, but Taylor was worried about many things, dominated by from getting Shepard safely off the station, getting Miranda safely off the station, and wondering how he could get both women in the same place at the same time…

…feasibly.

Whatever else, he _was_ a decent man to run security. Provided there was no sabotage coming from trusted personnel. And if Miranda hadn't caught on, there was no way Taylor would. _She _could almost smell treason.

Almost.

"I don't care who's supposed to be where; those mechs are shooting at us, and these damn things only have so much ammo*. We need to move out," Shepard cut in with a nasty look at the pistol in her hand. "We'll sort the small stuff later."

Her calm push forward was a stark contrast from Miranda's whip cracking style, but got similar results.

"Right," Taylor nodded. "We need to find Miranda."

"She was over in D-wing," Wilson protested quickly, "that place was swarming with mechs. There's no way she—"

"It'll take more than a couple of mechs to drop Miranda," Taylor spat back, icily.

"Then where is she?" Wilson pointed out, appealing to Taylor rather than to Shepard. "Why haven't we heard from her?" But he kept one eye on the Commander, wondering why she had not made any comment on what she knew…

…or was it just the poker face for which she was so well-known? Or was her face simply hurting enough that she did not want to move it, and that shark-in-the-water look was just her expression when her face was at rest? Further creeps of unease sidled up his spine.

"There are only two explanations: one, she's dead, or two, she's a traitor."

Shepard _did_ respond to this statement. "A traitor would have wanted me asleep...this time."

Taylor missed the comment, but Wilson did not. How much of that careful wording was just a bluff? An attempt to rumble him into revealing something? "Maybe she's not a traitor, but that doesn't change the facts. We're here. She's not."

Shepard took two steps forward. "You're not reading me, Wilson. She was alive when she stopped to deal with that little mech problem of hers. I don't leave people behind. Is that…problematic?"

-J-

*Shepard simple means 'we're burning daylight', since she didn't actually check how depleted the ammo block is. Remember: this is a woman who likes to carry a spare.


	25. Undertow

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Jacob watched Shepard ease forward towards the door leading them one room closer to the shuttle bays. Ever since they teamed up, she had been getting more and more nervy—and the nervier she got, the more often she seemed to expect a bullet in the back. "Shepard, hang on a second."

Shepard stopped, lowered her pistol and stood sideways, presenting a narrow target.

Just like they taught you in basic. She could have modeled for a textbook. "If I tell you who we're working for," he nodded to indicate Wilson and himself, "will you trust us?"

"This really isn't the time, Taylor," Wilson interjected.

Jacob took Shepard's closed mouth and intense scrutiny for a mute declaration that until she knew who they were, where she was, and what they (herself included) were all doing here she would reserve judgment either way. "It's better she get it _now,_ when I don't _have_ to tell her, than let her get it later and look like I was hiding something."

Shepard's eyes snapped from him, to Wilson, then back. She must have thought she was being subtle. Well, when you'd been on a slab for two years, some things were bound to get rusty.

"All right. Let's have it," she nodded.

"The Lazarus Project, the program that…helped you…" He would let Miranda explain what 'helped' entailed. This wasn't the time to field a truckload of 'why' and 'how' questions. He was about to have enough 'what the hell?' questions to deal with. "It's funded and controlled by Cerberus."

Her lip curled in a snarl. She glanced from him to Wilson and back again, then aborted the gesture, though she clearly did _not _like that answer. "Interesting. What are the chances that's Commander Sheffler kicking down the door, I wonder?"

It was not a joke, and no one laughed. He had half expected an accusation of having lied to her, even though he had not told her _anything _about where she was, past where they needed to go.

"The Alliance declared you dead. They gave up." He knew that, from here on in, she would have to carry the dreadful suspicions and worries about how Cerberus got a hold of her. A flicker of unease, of worst case scenarios, shone for a moment on her face, as her eyes widened, just enough to reveal an echo of a sixteen-year-old girl whose world had just fallen apart.

Was it normal for a person to read that much off her?

"Look, I know this sounds suspicious; hell, I wouldn't believe it if it was me, but that's what is. I thought you deserved to know." He held her gaze until she looked away, towards Wilson. "I'm not asking you to trust us, or take _anything _on faith."

"I appreciate the honesty," she said slowly. Clearly, the conundrum of why Cerberus wanted her anywhere but in a pine box was causing her some serious mental discomfort. Or maybe she had a headache to begin with, and the new information was just exacerbating it. This was not a great day for anyone on this station.

"Once we're off the station, I'll take you to the Illusive Man. He's the guy with the answers. He'll explain everything. I promise." For some reason, promising her that 'the Illusive Man' would answer all her questions amused her…no, that wasn't right. It was as though he put her vaguely in mind of someone else, and he sensed this garnered him a foothold in her estimations. A foothold that pulled him out of the category of 'mindless terrorist zealot, shoot on sight or as feasible'.

There were plenty of those in Cerberus, but if the Illusive Man was smart—and he was—the nutcases and questionable projects would stay well away from Shepard.

"I take your point: for the time being, you watch my back and I'll watch yours."

Jacob's spine tingled. There was more in the words than the words themselves. In fact, it reminded him vaguely of Miranda, in a way. She was saying something without saying it outright…

Then again, it might be a blind. He recognized SERE training kicking in when he saw it. If she was going to escape she would need a shuttle, and she needed to survive long enough to get to one. Three-on-many mechs (or four, if/when they found Miranda) were better odds than she would have if she struck out alone.

And she didn't know the station.

"Right, I'll go first," she held up a hand to stave off Jacob's protest, "Wilson follows me and you follow him, Taylor—I don't want anyone shooting from behind our biotic powerhouse. Let's go."

"Bossy, huh?" Wilson asked softly as Shepard started forward, though she still seemed to be keeping half an eye on what went on behind her.

"You don't get to be where she was by being _nice:_ you get there by handing out candy or ass-kicking as applicable. Get moving, we need to find Miranda." Miranda would put Shepard's safety before her own in a heartbeat, considering all the effort that had gone into rebuilding the Commander. However, he was more prone to worrying about Miranda.

He knew Miranda, and was fond of her—if that was a word he could use. Shepard was just an officer—a good officer, from all accounts, but she still boiled down to another member of the brass, in the World According to Jacob. Nothing against Shepard, it was just the way things went.

The Illusive Man would not shell out to replace Miranda. And without Miranda spearheading the effort, Shepard wouldn't be trotting on ahead, weapon at the ready…

…and one eye still checking her six.

Well, Wilson _would_ be just in her periphery: doubtless the motion kept catching her attention, thus the semi-continual checking.

If he ever found out who staged this fiasco, he was going to tie them into a pretzel. With his bare hands. Why waste the effort to do it with biotics?


	26. Efficient

Miranda clenched her teeth, slamming the last of the mechs into a wall before brutally crunching the lot of them into a large ball of scrap. She let it drop, approving the dull clunk of _dead weight_. Running a hand through her hair, she tried to reestablish contact with Shepard, but found the communications lines cut—which meant someone had taken advantage of her preoccupation with the attack.

Well, she smile, the _primary communications _lines were cut—she still had secondary access to the system and it was time to find out who the little shit was that was ruining her plans, her project, and her peace of mind.

A blip appeared on her trace, originating at a secondary access terminal—a terminal far too close to the subject's most efficient line of travel.

Damn it, but she should have chipped the subject for _tracking_ purposes, even if control mechanisms were off the table! She pounded a fist on the table, rerouted camera access…

She sucked air through her teeth, her eyes narrowing. Wilson stood at a control terminal, working feverishly. She recognized the jerky quality of someone who had memorized what to do as opposed to someone who actually knew what to do.

Someone had coached him; if he'd somehow got the overrides, somehow gained system access he _could_ re-task the mechs…but to orchestrate something as big as crippling this station…well. That was beyond the little pyjak's scope.

Wilson suddenly started, his hand going to his ear as her looked over his shoulder. Clearly in response to some radio contact—Miranda was sure it had to be Jacob, because the subject…Shepard…wouldn't have the frequencies—Wilson quickly changed his position. For a moment he looked at the gun in his hand, then back at the doorway through which he seemed to expect company.

Miranda's hands balled into fists. She was alone, so she did not both trying to dim the flare of biotics—she only flared like this when she was truly in a rage, and only, _only_ when alone. It gave her grim satisfaction to see Wilson shoot himself, but apprehension returned moments before Jacob—followed, mercifully, by Shepard—entered the room.

Jacob was an astute man…but a little too trusting of his allies. He would want to see outsiders infiltrating, not treachery from within. Cerberus usually did the infiltrate and sabotage song and dance. It was very rarely done _to_ them…so lacking familiarity he would fall back on his own experiences and fallacies.

Poor Jacob. He would have to depend on Shepard to keep him alive.

Miranda thumped a fist on the worktop: _she_ should have seen this coming! It was her _job_ to see this sort of thing before it happened!

Shepard did not seem convinced of whatever Wilson said.

Despite her own self-recriminations, Miranda smiled like a venomous spider before it attacked some unlucky fly. Something Wilson said or suggested garnered an immediate 'no' reaction from both Shepard and Jacob.

If Wilson thought she was dead—Miranda glanced at the still-fizzling mechs—he might well try to convince Jacob that Shepard's safety came first…but it would only work if Wilson was very clever. And while he'd been clever enough to avoid detection while not under scrutiny…she couldn't see Wilson as being a very clever liar.

Jacob seemed appeased by whatever Wilson said next, but Miranda knew by instinct that Shepard, already undoubtedly suspicious of her surroundings and situation, did not accept it. It was something in the way she cocked her head as she apparently asked a question.

Miranda shut off the display, locked out the systems until only her own backdoor overrides would work. The station would, eventually, be found—either by accident or a Cerberus scrub team—she did not want all of Lazarus' files lying around.

Files which she quickly streamed to her omnitool, initiating the emergency download routines which would let her move while the precious data of the project prepared itself for transit.

She loved being an administrator.

_The_ administrator…which meant she had a very clear duty, and one that would give her great satisfaction.

She was closer to the shuttles than Shepard or Jacob and, judging by what she'd seen in the security footage, she could probably reach the shuttles at about the same time as they did if she moved fast enough.

Miranda set off, the corona of dark energy solidifying into a barrier. As she walked, temper began to build. There would be no time to interrogate Wilson here. She wasn't about to transport a known traitor on the same vessel as Shepard.

Speaking of treachery, she had to wonder if Shepard's very premature waking really was a result of neural function being fully restored. Could it have been sabotage? Or both? Or had sabotage been the jump start to Shepard's metaphorical engine? She did not like unanswered questions, but her plan was already firm.

Miranda navigated the corridors quickly, finding no survivors and few mechs—they must have begun to filter off, or tried to coalesce around Shepard's position…

…but only until Wilson had to leave off using his terminal. No, it was more likely that the mechs had very basic 'seek and destroy' parameters. They wouldn't be particularly clever or tenacious.

Miranda found herself almost jogging as she got nearer to the shuttle bay. She reached it, found that no one was there, yet. Shepard and Jacob between them could handle whatever mechs blocked the way. OF that, she had no doubt.

Still…

She palmed open the only other door leading to this particular evacuation area.

She found herself face-to-face with Wilson; it was not a pleasant view. She took only a moment to clench her teeth and check to make sure neither Shepard nor Jacob were in the line of fire.

"Miranda?" Wilson's mouth fell open as he took a half step back. "But you were—"

Miranda's lip curled as she freed her pistol and shot him on the spot. "Dead?" she finished archly.


	27. Bend

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Shepard saw the instant in which Miranda's blue eyes identified the face before her, caught the grimace of utter disdain—it was a grimace Shepard would have given quite a bit to have at her own command—and was prepared when Miranda's pistol whipped up and put a slug neatly between Wilson's eyes.

"Dead?"

The man hit the ground in a crumbled heap, as Miranda put her pistol in its holster. Gesturing imperiously with one hand, her biotic field flared around her as she lifted Wilson's body and cast him negligently aside, out of her way, like a wet washcloth left overnight on the shower floor.

"What the hell are you doing?" Jacob demanded. He had not, Shepard realized, noticed _any _of the little clues. Wilson had known she saw through him; she thought Jacob would pick up on the silent hints at 'danger in our midst' but he had not. For a moment she wondered what kind of naiveté Cerberus was employing…

…before reminding herself that not everyone was used to searching the shadows for hidden daggers. Not everyone was used to purposefully keeping people at a distance. Some people, a very few people, were so genuinely honest that they trusted easily, and those very few tended to miss all but the most obvious signs of betrayal.

How was it someone of that cloth came to work for Cerberus?

All this speculation passed in the blink of an eye.

"My job," Miranda answered blandly, as though this should be obvious. "Wilson betrayed us all." Blue eyes cast around the shuttle's staging area, taking in the lack of other faces. Shepard caught the slight nod of approval as Miranda's eyes ran over her, like an engineer double-checking their combat drone before a mission.

Shepard refrained from wondering aloud if her original premature awakening and the violent assault of resurgent memory had been deliberate—it was a thought she had entertained ever since the evidence for her suspicions appeared. Or rather, since the lack of evidence became apparent. "I thought I smelled something rotten."

Jacob said nothing to this, but it looked like an effort.

"You didn't notice the lack of mechs in the room where we found him? Shooting at him or otherwise? Or the fact that the trajectory of that bullet was impossible to imitate if it was shot across the room: the thing behind which he was standing would have gotten into the way." Shepard declared grimly.

Jacob shook his head slowly, running over the events. Shepard did not pat him on the shoulder as she might have for one of her crewmen, but gave him a bracing nod. She meant to say 'no harm, no foul', but Miranda spoke up.

"Good instincts. Not a lot of people would have caught that."

"I'm trained to catch things," Shepard declared, becoming grim. "So why does Cerberus want me alive? Thought you folks'd be the first in line to dance on my grave."

"Ah, Jacob," Miranda sighed, almost indulgently. The two words held all the meaning for a lengthy conversation. She switched tracks smoothly, however. "At the moment Cerberus wants you off this wreck of a station. Then, Cerberus will want to put you under medical observation. And, finally, Cerberus will introduce itself—that is, _him_self—to you."

Shepard mulled this over.

"Don't even think about trying it," Miranda murmured, as though she knew exactly what Shepard was thinking. "You're fast on the draw, but I can put you in stasis field before you can blink. If you thought your Alenko was good, I'm better."

"And where _is _my crew, exactly?" Shepard asked, with an edge to her tone that made Jacob want to back away. Here were two women who were exceedingly well-trained, seasoned, used to being in charge, and used to clear delineations of authority and responsibility.

"Not on this station. Now, let's follow their example and not be here either." Miranda made to lead the way to the shuttle.

"This is a big station," Shepard declared. "There could be survivors."

Miranda stopped for a moment then turned to look at Shepard. "Don't you get it? You're the only one who's important here: everyone else is expendable."

"Yourself and Jacob included?" Shepard asked with acidic mock-innocence.

"Miranda's right, Commander," Jacob put in, certain he would not like Miranda's answer. It was never a question of Miranda being expendable: it was a question of what, in this galaxy, _could_ kill her? Or, rather, what in the galaxy could kill her and live to gloat about it? "We all knew the risks going into this."

"They all signed paperwork," Miranda shrugged. "Just like enlistment papers."

Shepard crossed her arms in mute defiance.

"Shepard," Miranda began firmly.

"Commander," Jacob broke in, knowing Miranda's method of getting people to fall in line wouldn't work. "Even if you stand around here all day, you're going to have to get on that shuttle sooner or later. Trust me: you do _not_ want to stay here. If you want answers—and I don't blame you—you're going to have to get them from the Boss. I guarantee you: Miranda's not known for giving straight answers if she can help it."

"Like someone else we all know," Miranda put in.

Shepard gritted her teeth, knowing very well that her ploy to play for time was not working. Minutes ticked by and Miranda, while not squirming, gave the impression of preparing to drag Shepard off in a stasis field if the Commander held them up much longer.

"All right." The words seemed to tear themselves out of her mouth. "Let's go."

Miranda strode off, Jacob in tow. Shepard fell in mutely.

She was being bent to someone else's will—not Miranda's—and she didn't know whose or why. She didn't like it, the sudden feeling that she was caught like a creature in a trap. A dark sense of foreboding fell over her as she stepped into the shuttle and threw herself into one of the seats.


	28. Too Much Information

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Miranda settled in the cockpit, leaving the door that separated it from the rest of the cabin open.

Jacob settled opposite Shepard.

It took effort for Shepard to force her face blank, to put on a mask of neutrality. She didn't like the confined space. More accurately, now that the crisis was over, she didn't like being caught on a shuttle with a pair of Cerberus operatives…though she had to wonder how dedicated Jacob was. He wasn't cut from the cloth of a fanatic.

Most people would have kept the knowledge that she was caught in a Cerberus net from her until the last possible minute.

"So," Shepard said calmly, "what does Cerberus want with me?"

"_Cerberus_ wants you to answer to a few questions, first," Miranda answered bluntly, as though she knew Shepard made a concentrated effort to keep distaste out of her voice when using the entity's name. "It's necessary to evaluate your…condition.

"All right, what does _Cerberus_ want to know?" Shepard asked, not restraining the snarl.

"Miranda," Jacob prompted quietly.

"Jacob, it's been two years since the attack..."

Shepard stiffened, her face turning pale. She _felt_ herself go pale. Two years?

"...and while we _know_ she's physically able, we can't say we know _anything_ about how mentally able she is. I need some assurance that her memories are intact." Clearly, Miranda felt the personality was largely intact.

"I've been gone two years?" Shepard asked, her lips almost numb.

Jacob sighed. "Two years and twelve days."

"I died out there," Shepard said softly. She meant to say more, but found herself unable. Her eyes stung, her throat suddenly constricted. She had _died_…and they wouldn't let her stay dead. She hadn't wanted to go, but being dead had advantages: she didn't have to live in doubt, or fear, endure pain or heartbreak…

It was a demoralizing thing…and the demoralization showed in the tears gathering in her eyes. Dead people were beyond the cares of the living…but they couldn't leave her alone.

"Yes," Miranda answered simply. "Suffocated in the vacuum first, then burnt up on reentry. It wasn't pretty when we assessed the full scope of trauma."

To most, Miranda's words would have sounded callous, unfeeling, even cruel—but oddly enough, hearing about the event in such unvarnished terms was good for Shepard. It made her feel less like a walking miracle and more like…a victim of some ghastly accident. A coma patient.

People came back from comas all the time.

In a way, the 'tear off the medical tape' declarations made what could have been gruesome revelations less so. They were hurried and done with, rather than given to her slowly so as to make the blows as soft as possible…and in so doing make the telling far worse.

The blunt delivery of the bad news was, to Shepard, infinitely preferable.

Then again, she knew her feelings didn't come into this situation anyway: no one had shown any regard for how _she_ might feel about 'coming back'. "I see."

"Good." And, forgetting she had authorized Jacob to do so, Miranda began a battery of questions—questions revolving, Shepard thought grimly, around the worst events of her life.

"_Miranda_," Jacob finally interrupted. He got up and pulled the door separating the cockpit from the cabin partially closed then began feeling about under the seats, his back to Shepard.

Shepard, at first, thought this was his way of giving her a minute to herself without actually leaving her unsupervised.

She was half right. She heaved a heavy sigh, forced herself to categorize the new information as something she could sort out later.

As though this was a cue, Jacob sat beside her with a medkit in one hand. "Let's get that leak fixed, huh?" he asked gently.

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not. That's—"

Shepard touched her middle, found the orange goo still damp and that her midriff still hurt. "No blood, I'm fine…"

Jacob, frowning, reached out, pressed a hand firmly against her stomach and pulled it away quickly. Before Shepard could retaliate, he held up the hand for her to see. Orange goo dotted his glove, evidencing that the material was not from a workspace, but that it was actual seepage—and in response to direct pressure, blood droplets blossomed on her shirt.

Shepard, unthinking, pulled at her shirt, looking down through the neck to find that her midriff was a shattered mess of unhealed flesh, smeared with orange gel and, now, blood. "The hell is _that_?" she demanded, her voice spiking sharply.

Miranda slid the door open, in response to Shepard's audible distress.

"If it's red it's blood. If it's orange it's synthetic gelatin," Miranda answered as Jacob produced a pack of wet wipes.

Shepard shook her head. "Just the packing—I'm a real mess. Those aren't going to help."

"Among other things, the gel helps prevent your body from rejecting some of the cybernetics and protects some of the more…delicate inner workings." Jacob, somewhat sourly, frowned at Miranda, as though he felt Shepard should be spared the gruesome details.

"Just the pack," Shepard said softly, "please." He reminded her, in that moment, of Alenko. Just a little. Alenko, as team medic, wouldn't have liked one of his patient's injuries discussed so scientifically while they were still…oozing.

"Probably best—the docs will want to patch that themselves." Jacob nodded, fished it out, tore open the cover and held it up so Shepard could remove it herself. "You got that okay?" he asked.

"Fine." Shepard tugged her shirt up with one hand, placed the gauze pad, and nodded to Jacob and his roll of tape, indicating he had her permission to anchor the bandage.

"It to dissolves slowly," Miranda continued, "so the body gets used to having foreign matter—your synthetic additions—in there. It's also why you don't look as out-of-shape as you probably feel."

Shepard nodded: she'd wondered about that. In fact, as she processed the new information, she might not still fit in her old uniform.


	29. Trouble

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

"Here's your charge."

It was with those words that Miranda dumped Shepard with a whole new battery of doctors, headed by a no-nonsense doctor who introduced herself as Crystal Curtis—and appended what sounded like half the alphabet to Shepard to that name.

Shepard was in no angelic mood, and was not inclined to try to hide it. She had no sense of time—she'd napped in the shuttle, but only lightly. Truly sleeping with Cerberus operatives present wasn't likely to happen. While on the shuttle, every time she got close enough to sleep to skim her toes across REM, her dreams were disturbed and incoherent. 'Prothean dreams' she'd once called the ones she believed to be resultant of the Cipher. They'd had that sort of feel to them.

"Before we let you get mopped up," Dr. Curtis said practically, after scanning Shepard up and down with her omnitool, "I'd like to take a few samples."

"Hair? Skin? Blood? My firstborn child?" Shepard asked grimly.

"Charming and I wouldn't bank on children just yet—your reconstruction is still full of unknowns," Dr. Curtis returned amiably. "Blood, yes. I'll also want a cheek swab."

"Why?" Shepard's expression crumpled in confusion.

"Shepard."

"It's _Commander_."

"Commander, your eyes went out of focus when I gave you my credentials—do you _really_ want me to let a wall of medical tech-speak stand between you and getting a nice, hot shower? With real soap? I expect some of those muscles are getting…painful."

Shepard's eyes narrowed, and she took a step back. It was true: a lot of muscles seemed to be pulling tight, almost to the point of cramping, from the abnormal use. But behind her reticence was fear—they could do just about anything, tamper with her, maybe put her back under for modification purposes…

…she had seen some of what Cerberus cells did. She did not want to be on the receiving end.

"I've been forwarded your medical files. The blood tests will help us determine—among other things—whether your blood chemistry is still balanced. You've had a rough day. The cheek swab is for comparative purposes, to be compared to some of your older records." Dr. Curtis produced the tool needed for the blood draw. "Arm, please?"

Shepard didn't move, though she cast around hurriedly for anything she could improvise as a weapon…

…but no, that wouldn't work. She was on a space station at an unknown location. She couldn't leave until she found out where, exactly, she was and she couldn't do that if she was in lockdown.

"Commander, this doesn't have to be difficult."

"If you think I'm going to let another Cerberus lackey lay one finger on me, think _real_ hard before you try it."

Dr. Curtis sighed. "Commander, you're a medical miracle. No one wants to do anything to ruin that. But if you do go into rejection, and we don't catch it, you may not have to worry about much in future. Fine, you want out? That way."

Shepard mistrusted the pointed finger indicating a door other than the one she came in. "You first."

Dr. Curtis shrugged, pocketed the device, and strode out, her assistants falling back. Shepard eyed the two brawny operatives flanking the door through which the doctor passed—clearly they were ready to jump at her and sit on her if Dr. Curtis gave the order.

Shepard slipped into the hall, turned left to stay behind Dr. Curtis and then stopped dead.

Her eyes widened, her breath momentarily caught as she found herself turning into a long hallway with a spectacular view of deep space. The black seemed to reach out to her, the stars seemed to call her. Her breathing sped up, sweat began to pour down her face. Her mouth trembled as her sense of equilibrium began to tip.

It was not the white blankness of screaming panic, but it was immobilizing, paralyzing.

She couldn't protest when Dr. Curtis took hold of her arm and pressed the device to it. The pain shocked her, but did not pull her out of this first experience with what the shred of rationale remaining defined as 'psychosis'. Except for the convulsive tremors shaking her, she couldn't move. Her feet felt like blocks of ice, her brain seemed to reel within the confines of her skull. The only thing warding off sheer terror, pure panic, was the fact that she knew, incontrovertibly, that she was _inside,_ and that the panoramic outside did not alter her perception of the top-down orientation of her present environment.

"Space psychosis. You've always had a touch of it, according to your file, but I'm afraid your last…experience…has made a real, debilitating condition out of it. We'll try to mediate it, of course, but that will have to wait."

So that was how it would work: until she could get this paralyzing psychosis under control, they wouldn't need to lock her in at night. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if the panoramics looking into space weren't quite so…big. This was an observation deck, built to afford the maximum view with a minimum of visual interruptions…maybe more moderated outlooks wouldn't be so bad…

Instinctively, instantly, she knew she really had been dead.

"Come on, now, sit down." Dr. Curtis took her by the upper arm, turned Shepard towards the nearest solid wall.

Shepard's shoulders moved but her hips didn't. The momentary split between motion and stillness was all it took: her knees crumpled, sending her to the ground, tearing her attention from the terrible empty blackness.

Her hands shook so violently against the floor that she half expected them to shake to pieces. Pressing them against the solid surface simply sent the muscle tremors up her elbows to her shoulders.

Shepard couldn't stop the question that jumped to her mouth. She looked Dr. Curtis in the eyes, "I'm in trouble, aren't I?"

"I think you'll feel better after a hot shower to get the muck sweat off of you. Bartholomew?"

-J-

And Shepard used to think space-walks were bad. ^_^


	30. Diagnostic

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Shepard ran like a hamster on a wheel, with single minded determination. There was no illusion of escape, no image for her to focus upon, just doctors in white coats with datapads in their hands, just the white walls emblazoned with that hated insignia. Her breathing picked up as did her pace.

Her eyes narrowed in concentration; the pace was brisk, a little faster than 'standard pacing' in basic, but after only twenty-four hours in the new facility the only change in her physical condition was that she had finally stopped leaking.

Time spent dead left her flabby, weak, like a civilian slug.

She was a soldier, a marine, she was better than this. She had to _get_ better than this.

Under normal circumstances, she detested the treadmill as a means of exercise. However, now was different: it was the only way she could feel like she was _getting somewhere_. She was someone's lab rat. Lab rats were, she decided, compelled to run by virtue of their imprisonment.

A prompt to relax, and ease off garnered nothing but defiance. She upped her pace again, sweat sliding down her flushed skin. As far as she wanted them to know, she _had_ been relaxing.

On an operating table.

Her lungs started to ache, her heartbeats painful.

"Step it down, Commander," the lead medical officer, Dr. Curtis answered grimly. "I mean it."

Make her. Shepard was tired of following Dr. Curtis' gentle suggestions'. It was a blistering pace even for a trained, honed, seasoned soldier. She had…

Shepard woke up on the floor, with Dr. Curtis kneeling beside her. Her head ached, her side ached…she just _ached all over_. "I warned you." The sting of a med-spray to the arm.

"What just happened?" She could guess: the treadmill had pitched her.

"You're not fighting fit, that's what happened. Up you get," with help from one of her brawny assistants—Bartholomew— Dr. Curtis hauled Shepard to her feet.

Shepard stifled a groan. She hurt _all over_, now, instead of just where her skin hadn't knit back together.

"Yes, it does hurt when you don't listen," Dr. Curtis noted, half sympathetic, half sarcastic.

"How's my progress?" The comment sounded too much like those she had heard before, at a military hospital. There was a distinct possibility this doctor _had_ served with the Alliance at one point or another, but Shepard refused to think on that. She needed to remember that this was a _Cerberus_ base, that she was surrounded by _Cerberus_ operatives.

Surrounded by the _enemy_, in an _enemy_ facility. As soon as she could move around with less pain than she was in now, she needed to return her attention to an officer's first duty: to escape. Escape from a deep space facility, when she had no idea where she was, or what she had been brought back for, was difficult.

Unfortunately—and she tried to stifle the thought—she was certain Cerberus would not be trying to contain her if they did not have an ace in the hole. If they had her tagged she couldn't find the tag. If they had her chipped...well, there would be no finding _that_. Somehow, she suspected that if she was chipped no one would say anything about it. Furthermore, she suspected that however Cerberus intended to maneuver her would be subtle, direct, and effective.

From a painfully few fragments of conversation she understood that Miranda was still very much in charge of things. Any sort of control exercised by that particular agent was bound to be doubly unpleasant because it would probably _work. _

"It would be better if I didn't have to spend a couple hours making sure you didn't tear anything internal loose with that stunt. You're still recovering from massive muscular insult, your skin's delicate around the edges, and _you're_ slamming your head around like a coconut. _Step it down_."

Shepard slouched, wishing there was something she could do or say to refute this—but pain was a powerful teacher, and she was in quite a bit. She let them unload her onto one of the medical tables. "_Did_ I tear anything?" She could suppress the question.

"Just around the edges." To illustrate her point, Dr. Curtis pressed a hand against the injury. Orange goo seeped into Shepard's shirt.

"_Damn_." Shepard gritted her teeth.

"The skin's still _fragile_. We know you're a big, tough, marine. _This_," Dr. Curtis said, again hinting at an Alliance background, "is damage to government property, GI."

"What's an Alliance doc doing in a place like, this?" Shepard asked grimly, getting to her feet.

"Actually, I was a private practitioner," Dr. Curtis answered. "But a lot of Alliance servicemen and their dependents came to me. The doctor who owned the practice was former Alliance. You pick up things like serviceman humor in an environment like that."

Shepard grimaced, but said nothing.

"You going to hold still while I patch this, or do you want to ooze a little longer?" Dr. Curtis asked affably.

"Break out the spackle. I'll hold still."

"Good. And once you're done well try a...less energetic diagnostic. Let's look at fine motor movements."

Shepard raised both hands, demonstrating the quick dexterity drill that helped train Engineers and Infiltrators to be both sure and quick in their movements. '_Know where your fingers are: otherwise your tech mine becomes a tech _rock _and goodbye to you!_'

Shepard pursed her lips, but refrained from saying anything as Dr. Curtis took the 'spackle' from one of her assistants. "How long am I doing diagnostics?"

"A month, but I may be able to process your out sooner if I don't have to go and patch you up every couple of days."

"A _month_?" Shepard felt herself go pale.

"I know; you were hoping to get out overnight. Believe me, Commander, I want you out of here as much as you do."

Shepard could not repress a wry smile. She got up once Dr. Curtis finished the patch.

Time for yet more diagnostics.

-J-

AN: Just to be clear, I am playing with the immediate timeframe a little, for purposes of logical progression.


	31. Process

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Three days after her arrival, Shepard found herself sleeping erratically: apparently this was simply part of a process. Her mind didn't recognize the time gap. Her body did, and as such, needed to re-learn how to function for itself.

She would find herself doing something—reading, learning out what she had missed during the last two years, working out, or being subjected to endless batteries of diagnostics—then find herself suddenly exhausted.

Sometimes she woke up where she crashed, sometimes Bartholomew, Teddy, or Belinda (the lead wranglers for each of the three work shifts) would move her back to her little room in the medical wing. She was sure her lapses of exhaustion were not drug-induced.

And she always seemed to be hungry. If she wasn't hungry, she was thirsty, and the excess intake troubled her. Dr. Curtis had explained this when she found Shepard eyeing her food mistrustfully—more so than she usually did.

The need for excessive nutrient intake was that her body was not accustomed to having to function for itself: previously all nutrition and hydration were monitored and managed by the medical staffers. Processing increasingly solid foods and hydration that had to go through her stomach first required acclimation.

So they treated her like a starvation victim, feeding her little amounts administered often.

She also found her muscular weakness frustrating. As it turned out, all three of her lead wranglers were more that security gorillas: all of them had a background in physical therapy, which meant when she woke up from her strangely-timed naps, there were always batteries of exercises to do. The muscles locked up, or 'crimped' after a few hours of sleeping—the way they had during the first week of basic, she decided grimly—when muscular control was less rigid than while waking.

Three days on station and she had not been anywhere that might give her a good look into the blackness of space. The very thought of having to face that endless expanse made her feet go completely icy in a way that made Spacers' Syndrome look like a joke. She remained dubious but cooperative when the topic of 'therapy' or 'remediation' for her psychosis came up.

By the fifth day Shepard established a sort of armed neutrality with the medical personnel. It was the only thing she could think of to do since the 'escape' and 'evade' from SERE training were not really practical right now. She had put effort into finding out where she was, where the nearest relay was, but without even marginal success.

She was lost in space, and her attempts to contact the outside world had failed as surely as her attempts to plot her own position. It frustrated her and, as days continued ticking by, drove her to push her own recovery. She needed to be strong, she needed to be fit, she needed to be ready to snatch her freedom the first time she got the chance.

She didn't doubt that chance would be hard to come by, but patience was a virtue. She'd just have to practice it.

By day nine, Dr. Curtis was satisfied that her fine motor movements were as good as they ever were—the tech-speak boiled down to the promise that Shepard's ability to use an omnitool quickly and efficiently would not be impaired.

By day ten Shepard felt like she really was back in boot camp. The schedule was predictable, even if the time slots for activities varied, depending on whether she was awake or not. The day was like little gel pellets in water: they could rearrange any time something disrupted the solution.

Within twelve days, Dr. Curtis told her, pleasantly, that all systems seemed to be working just fine.

Shepard hated thinking of herself as a freak science project, and sometimes found herself touching her own flesh as though trying to decide if she felt _real_. She decided that she would need someone else to make the assessment.

She knew who she wanted to do it, but that wasn't an option right now. Part of her was afraid of the answer she would get if she did put the question to him: _do I feel real?_ Maybe it was better not to know.

Day fifteen marked her first full eight hours of sleep…and only a diminishing of the frequency of daytime naps. Still, she was sleeping less overall, and could finally function on three meals a day—and maybe a snack between supper and bedtime. Dr. Curtis warned her that this balance would maintain itself until she began engaging in heavy physical activity, then Shepard would have to recalibrate her necessary nutritional intake quota.

Shepard suspected someone would be tasked to oversee that change: heavy physical activity meant being somewhere that was not this station. She couldn't wait to get out of here, away from the doctors. She understood the necessity, but all the same, she was tired of feeling like a lab rat.

By day eighteen, Shepard could run for more than a hundred feet without stopping and at a steady pace. Longer distances than that required frequent rests. In fact, she began filling her time with running the corridors of the station—one of her wranglers huffing alongside her—as much to learn the layout of the station as to exercise. No one tried to hem her in, there seemed no place on this floor she was not allowed to go.

But only as long as she stayed on the floor with the medical wing, and she understood the precaution: couldn't afford to have their very expensive lab rat drop dead because she strayed too far from the infirmary.

She hated the treadmill, but on day twenty-one the medical ward started to seal itself at night—which told her something was pending, something that made people want to know exactly where she was.

Day twenty-three started early, and Shepard knew, as soon as Dr. Curtis walked in, that these would be the final diagnostics.


	32. Rorschach

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Yeoman Kelly Chambers stood off to one side, holding an armful of datapads containing evaluations for the last dozen or so candidates for Shepard's new crew, which were independent of the half dozen possible candidates for the ground crew (those were still locked up in her desk).

It still amused her that someone had wanted to pull Commander Rogers. Commander _Rogers!_

Clearly someone was not thinking in terms of _gestalt_: a whole being greater than the sum of the parts. That was, sometimes, a failing within the organization. The Illusive Man did it, Miranda Lawson did it…unfortunately for _them,_ Commander Shepard was _not_ known for doing it.

Right now, Miranda was finishing a conversation with Dr. Curtis, Shepard's current physician. Whatever the news, it seemed news to Miranda's liking: when she terminated the call she lowered her eyelids, her gaze seemingly turning inward to privately admire a job well done.

Chambers averted her eyes. Part of her job—her gift, even—was finding people's 'tells'. It was why she went into psychology in the first place.

Some people were harder to read than others, but Miranda was easy enough if one knew what to look for. Miranda had two defenses: she either let her barriers down only in private—or if she perceived the company as not observant enough to notice the little tells—or she overcompensated and by hiding them so very conscientiously she drew attention to those little betrayals.

"Chambers." Miranda, looking up, had just noticed her standing in the doorway.

Chambers plastered on a smile, adjusted her posture. She kept herself more or less beneath Miranda's notice, like the extra functionary that was inevitably ignored. If Miranda ever thought Chambers was observing _her_ as well…

Miranda liked to think that 'observing everyone' excluded herself, and Chambers knew it. Unfortunately...everyone meant _everyone_.

"Right here, Operative Lawson!" Champers spoke brightly, enthusiastically even. She had, by this time, constructed what she wanted Commander Shepard to see, and now was the time to practice. Acts within acts, performances within performances—the original quote was easily adapted to so many things. Some days Chambers felt like an onion: ring upon ring, layer upon layer, all centered around a core that most people didn't pay attention to.

Only the rings were really, truly interesting.

Miranda's eyebrows began to inch up her forehead, surprised by the unusual chipperness Chambers exuded. "Chambers, have you lost your mind _completely_?"

Chambers giggled, tightening her grip on the datapads clutched to her chest. "Don't worry, Operative Lawson. It's for the Commander's benefit." She took a deep breath, made a show of dropping the pretense...but only one of many pretenses she maintained. She felt as though she'd suddenly turned off a bright light. "I don't think she'd be very comfortable, knowing I'm there to keep an eye on her. But if she thought I was harmless—that's one of her blind spots about people." Chambers shrugged. She'd picked up on that 'blind spot' very quickly. "If I can worm my way into her perceptions as 'some kid Cerberus picked up' so much the better. If not...it just makes my job more challenging."

Chambers loved a challenge, and keeping Shepard un-suspicious would be challenging. The key was not to antagonize, alienate, or incite nervousness. Chambers merely needed to fade into the woodwork. _That_ was what was needed. Chambers had more information about Shepard's psychological status than anyone from Lazarus—she _had_ to know these things.

Hence why it was her job to weed out crewmen who might grate unduly on Shepard's nerves. Some of the ground team, though...she knew for a fact one of them, at least, was Property Reclamation getting involved.

"You really think you can pull that off?" Miranda asked.

Chamber shrugged. "Shepard doesn't know me, Operative Lawson. She won't be suspicious of me, so she'll accept what she sees as what is actually there. She might even open up a bit if she thinks of me as a Cerberus hanger-on because I don't have enough life experience to know better." That would make observing her easier, but Chambers did not hang her hopes on 'maybe'.

"I'd tone down the perkiness if I was you, Chambers. It'll only annoy her. And it annoys me."

Chambers' smile wasn't her usual serene, 'yes ma'am' smile. "I'm sorry to hear that, Operative Lawson." She was almost sorry to say that keeping up a façade for Miranda wouldn't be like keeping one up for Shepard. Giving Miranda plausible 'yes ma'am' was a very all-purpose way to manage her.

"Trust me: it'll tone down once I'm under pressure," which was good, because it was _exhausting_, putting out that much energy all the time, and Shepard supposedly had one of those piercing glances it took a shield of hyper-exuberance to fool.

Chambers had subtly directed several conversations with Joker, using them to gain insight that could not be gained from personnel profiles. Joker already bought into the 'this kid doesn't know what kind of creeps she's running with' impression. Hopefully he would pass a sense of that along to Shepard if the opportunity arose. Not acutely but obliquely, without realizing he was doing it.

He had stories about Shepard making people squirm, just before she gave the impression she could read minds. It would be interesting to see if they were true…and how well she could cope with such scrutiny.

"It's good to be in the habit before I need to be. I don't think we'll have too much trouble. She seems mentally stable…or as stable as someone in her position can be."

Miranda nodded, regarding her desktop. "We'll be pulling out, soon—there's something she needs to look into. When I get back, I expect you to have finished screening the last of the crew."

"I'm down to the last dozen."

"Good. The ground team?"

"Whoever submitted Rogers must have been joking," Chambers offered sweetly, as though she believed the suggestion a genuine joke. "Don't worry, Operative Lawson, I'm sure it'll be okay."


	33. Spider's Web

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

"Shepard's first priority isn't going to be listening to anything we have to say—her first priority is going to be trying to get away. To escape," Miranda noted. "We can't exactly tie her up and put her in the trunk."

She was not, and the Illusive Man knew she was not, pointing out problems for no reason, or pointing out that a thing was difficult. She simply wanted to know what sort of methodology, if any, he preferred. He usually preferred a hands-off approach, but with a mission this delicate and a chess piece like Shepard in the mix…well, it was for the best that he take a more fingers-on-the-pulse approach.

Miranda was a match for Shepard, but he was Shepard's overmatch. Shepard just didn't know it—and wouldn't, as long as he could help it.

"I want her isolated," the Illusive Man dictated to Miranda's hologram. "Cut her off from any Alliance backing that we don't already control. If she thinks she can run to them, she will. I'm not worried about the Council; Spectre status could be very useful. Leave that venue open." He gesticulated with an unlit cigarette, lighting it once he finished speaking.

"With Anderson on the Council, I'm sure she'll have some support in that corner," Miranda responded. "He's in the loop about the Reapers, if nothing else. I don't think we need to worry about him being a way for the Alliance to muddy the waters."

"Anderson won't. He'd never sell Shepard out or set her up—not until she took out Arcturus station or crashed a meteor into Earth." An exaggeration, but close to the truth. "We're going to tie her hands with the only things that'll work: her conscience and logistics. Give her whatever resources she needs: the rest will take care of itself. I'm giving you a carte blanche, Miranda—but don't max out my credit card."

"I'll be fiscally irreproachable."

The Illusive Man nodded. Miranda could spend money, but she could be as shrewd as a volus moneylender—more so, since she could warp anyone who didn't pay up into little meatballs. "Now, a few more things."

Miranda's silence was an open invitation. In her still attention, he could almost see her engraving his directives into her mind.

"One: Eva Rogers. I want the Alliance to know they've got a mole in their officers' corps. I also want you to keep her in mind for anything that Shepard won't do but that needs to be done. She'll be mopping up our loose ends—but don't let her know that."

Rogers had provided interesting insight into the Alliance—and into several programs she had access to via carefully placed contacts. Rogers was just the sort of person he would want if he needed someone to take the fall for something. He needed Rogers in play because of point two.

"And two: John Sheffler. I don't want a kill order on him. If he wants to chase Cerberus let him be useful while doing it: Shepard won't be as keen to go back to the Alliance if she knows she's got someone like Sheffler coming after her. Make sure she knows what his current directives are."

Sheffler had, over the past two years, become something of an irritant. He hadn't crashed any major projects, but he'd come close once or twice. And if, somehow, Shepard was forced to kill him…that would be a bonus. It would put Shepard beyond the pale and remove a thorn from his side.

"Do you want to use Shepard as a blind?" Miranda mused aloud. "If Sheffler is chasing her he might miss anything we have Rogers doing. Or, even better, we might be able to get him to fixate on Shepard to the point that anything Cerberus becomes 'her doing'. Rogers could be virtually invisible, and that would give her greater maneuverability."

The Illusive Man didn't curl his lip, but he wanted to. Eva Rogers was not as big a fish as she would have liked to believe. She had her uses, though, and as long as she could use Cerberus she would let Cerberus use her. She was an opportunist. That was why she played the games she did.

Using Rogers to cast mistrust and suspicion on Shepard would be very useful. Miranda was just the sort to orchestrate such a thing, and he was just the sort to refine and conduct the undertaking. Managing Shepard required more work than most people would expect, and much of that work was subtle and behind-the-scenes. Much of it involved setting up game pieces that might never be used…but which were already ready, just in case.

But back to Sheffler. "Hatred is easy to exploit—have Chambers sit down and think about it, then both of you draw up a game plan. I leave it to you since you'll be the one it could backfire on. If he gets too close too fast…let him find something unimportant to play with. I'll consider those personnel and materiel losses necessary if you need to put some distance between him and this project." That was the trick: keeping Sheffler on the scent before it went cold but keeping him distanced enough so as not to be an actual danger.

Sheffler was another good pawn—and the fact that the Illusive Man could play three N7s against one another appealed to him. It gave the game…a third dimension…made it a real exercise in mental gymnastics. N7s didn't usually work counter to one another.

"I'll make sure I don't singe my fingers."

"Do that." The Illusive Man pulled up Rogers' and Sheffler's current postings and personnel files, then produced Shepard's old file.

"Do I need to worry about controlling reports of her…apparent survival?" Miranda continued, her linear thought patterns progressing at measured speed. One could almost see her locking down tangents for later examination and addressing.

"Suppress them. I'll oversee the information leaks personally." The release of such information required exquisite timing.


	34. Puppeteer

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

"Commander Shepard."

Shepard frowned at the hologram. It was too much to ask for them to put her in the same room as the head of Cerberus—assuming this really was the top man himself. Even unarmed, it wasn't wise to put someone with her training in the same place as someone she considered an enemy. "So this is the face of Cerberus."

"Indeed. I know you'd much prefer a face-to-face meeting…but I think you appreciate the necessity, since we both know where the bodies are buried."

Shepard's eyes narrowed. 'Where the bodies are buried.' An apt turn of phrase, rife with meaning.

"Incidentally, how are you feeling?"

Shepard watched the flare of a lighter in use. "Commander Shepard, J. A., serial number twenty-two forty-five sixty-nine thirty-two zero nine."

"Point taken, but I suggest you put your personal feelings aside: there are bigger problems." When Shepard arched her eyebrows with feigned innocence, "Mechanical ones. I can play this game too, Shepard, but it wastes time and is counterproductive."

"Reapers."

"The Reapers," the Illusive Man agreed. "Whatever you may or may not believe about Cerberus, I can assure you that we're on the same side in this matter."

Clever bastard—she couldn't disagree with him: when it came to the Reapers, there were only the two sides. "I don't approve of your methodology, but I approve even less of _their_ ideology."

"I'm glad to see you still draw fine distinction. What do you already know from Miranda and Jacob?"

"Why don't you tell me what you want me to know and I'll see if everything lines up." She refused to tip her hand to this…unknown.

"We're at war, a war no one wants to admit to. A war no one wants to see. While you've been sleeping entire colonies—human colonies—have been disappearing." His pause seemed to accommodate her inner increase of alertness. "So, you see, now, two of the reasons I wanted you for this mission."

The Battle of the Citadel and Mindoir. Shepard did not let her grim outlook show; she could already feel the handcuffs snapping closed.

"What we believe is that the entity affecting the abductions works for the Reapers. We're not sure who, we're not sure why, we're not even sure how. Those are questions we need answered."

"Why should Cerberus care if a couple colonies go missing?" Shepard asked grimly, the grisly relics of Cerberus cells flashing into her mind.

"Cerberus is dedicated to the advancement and preservation of humanity."

"I've seen your dedication to the advancement and preservation of humanity. Save the propaganda."

"All right, if you're feeling combative…if the Reapers are targeting humanity, trying to wipe us out, then Cerberus will stop them. I thought we were dispensing with the games, Commander."

"Wouldn't you rather know where _we_ stand?"

The Illusive Man paused, cigarette halfway to his mouth, before his lips curved in a cold but accepting smile. "Point taken, Commander. Point taken. I don't know how much you've picked up about the current political situation, so I'll sum it up: if we wait for the Council or the Alliance to act, we won't have any colonies left to save by the time they do."

"Why would the Reapers care about humanity in particular? Sovereign was very explicit: _all organic life_." Her stomach felt like a bag full of ice water, and apprehension tried to make her hands shaky. She stilled the response as best she could by folding her hands behind her, not quite at parade rest, but close to.

"Possibly because you killed one. That, theoretically, put you—and your species—on the radar. And, if you ask me, hundreds of thousands of humans being taken sounds like a good step forward in that 'all organic life' pogrom the Reapers have planned."

"Cerberus resources aren't limitless; we need the Alliance."

"That's true and that would be useful. However, being is to how we are _Cerberus_…"

"_You_ are Cerberus."

"And you've been dead on a slab for two years," the Illusive Man cut in sharply. "The Alliance isn't what you remember."

"I'll judge for myself."

The Illusive Man sighed. "Why do you think your extranet access has been monitored but not _restricted_? You're not a fool, Shepard, you've seen what's there: the Alliance is overwhelmed by their place on the galactic stage. They're building diplomatic relationships. It would send the wrong message for them to actively look into 'Shepard's boogey men'."

She remembered that clip (had played it several times). Anderson had nearly come unglued on that al-Jilani woman. It was probably the first, last, and only time Udina ever saved someone's life. She couldn't help but remember a similar instance in someone else's life, where an open appeal to a non-human race would have been perceived as weakness…

…and in that case it was children who paid for that pride.

"Anderson is only one man and no longer an officer with the Alliance. He's a man of action but has his hands tied."

That was probably true, too, Shepard decided, and she'd never been particularly close to Hackett. No help from that quarter, then. "Why me? There are others. Hell, you could probably have trained others to your specifications."

"You're referring to your four billion credit price tag?" Shepard's mental calculator shut down. "Understandable. You're one of the best the Alliance has to offer. You're a symbol for humanity—the first human Spectre, hero of the Battle of the Citadel. I won't bore you with the details. You killed a Reaper. Now, I don't know whether those creatures can feel _fear_—but I think they can respect the import of what 'dead Reaper' means."

"_If_ you're being straight with me and _if_ the Reapers are involved…"

"I won't make you finish that sentence," the Illusive Man announced magnanimously. "I'd be disappointed if you didn't have…reservations. There's a shuttle ready to take you to Freedom's Progress. It's the latest colony hit, and I want you to have a look for yourself."


	35. Insulated

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

"So, what is this?" Shepard eyed Dr. Curtis, crossing her arms as she did so. The news that she would be pulling out for her first jaunt off a Cerberus-controlled platform was inviting, even if the premise of the mission as not.

Missing colonies. Vanished colonists.

The damage to her midriff was greatly improved, but the skin was still tender in places. Her face seemed to heal more slowly.

She still moved gingerly, but the Illusive Man, Miranda, and Jacob all clearly wanted to have a look around Freedom's Progress before anyone else could show up. Shepard herself wanted the exact opposite, but was not stupid: if she was caught with a band of Cerberus operatives, she would be tarred with the same brush and locked up, rendered ineffective.

With her concerns about who was doing what about the Reaper threat (and the implied answers to those concerns provided by Cerberus) left her disinclined to spend months or years in a cell.

"This is the Inferno Armor. It's _not_ a prototype, so don't make that face," Dr. Curtis chided. It was not the same as when Dr. Chakwas said it, so Shepard gave the doctor a grim look. "You're awake and functioning weeks ahead of schedule, so we've had to come up with some way to keep you in one piece. Operative Lawson had a unit of your size brought in and…modified."

"_Modified?"_ Shepard did not move toward the ballistic mesh, despite the under-armor clothes she had on.

"Like an egg in a padded box, Shepard. It's going to exert pressure on you, to hold you together. You can jump around without worrying about popping any more of those gel packs."

Shepard's hand absently went to her side, the memory of the orange goo mingled with blood oozing out of her side tapping at the edge of thought. Her skin had close enough to hold everything that belonged 'inside' inside, but only if she didn't do anything physically intensive.

"It's also going to monitor your vital signs, in case of abnormalities. Anything spikes that's not supposed to and countermeasures kick in. Not that you'd notice. Trust me, Shepard, this thing is going to protect you every bit as well as your old armor, as well as hold you together. I keep telling you: the sooner you're out of my hair, the happier I'll be. There's a reason I didn't go into the Alliance. You soldiers…"

Shepard's lips pursed, remembering Dr. Chakwas' voice as she spoke about what working on soldiers meant to her. She would gladly burst a couple more gel packs willingly and at once if it would get Dr. Chakwas here. She wanted her own physician.

"Now, put that on, and let's not have any nonsense."

"There's no cornstarch." The words came out petulant, but resigned.

"Chafing," Dr. Curtis answered without batting an eyelash, "is _not _an issue with this unit. Now, will you please stop fussing and _do_? I don't want Operative Lawson breathing down my neck."

Shepard grabbed the mesh and began struggling into it. It was of a different weave than she was used to and had the nasty new-mesh smell. Still, it would be nice to have a shell between her and the world…even if it wasn't the shell she was used to or the one she wanted.

The armor was not a collaboration of mid-size plates, but almost like an exoskeleton, requiring less 'slide that thing home and move on' and more 'some assembly required'. She felt like she was wearing a rapid transit vehicle.

"This is used by some of our officers in the Verge. They're very pleased with it," Dr. Curtis offered as Shepard continued fighting with the armor, knowing better than to offer assistance…

…or the owner's manual.

But now it was a life-support system, Shepard thought grimly, as she wrenched a jointing piece into place. The thing still needed power and shielding modules, but she could tell where the receptors would slide through the mesh to lie against her skin.

It took her the better part of twenty minutes to get it fully on, with all the components correctly placed. It was not like the first time getting gear through Spectre requisitions: this suit was designed (or modified prior to delivery) to fit her like a glove. There was no room to wiggle in; there was no accommodation for a figure more generous than her own.

It was made for one person, and one only. Shepard's only consolation at being bubble wrapped by Cerberus was that they had left their insignia off the suit. Part of her was glad to see that the N7 motif was not present either: it would send the wrong message to see an identified N7 running around with Cerberus.

"And here we go…powering up…" Dr. Curtis advised.

Shepard sucked in a breath as the mesh suddenly pulled tighter, gripping her securely. If she thought the fit was snug before, this was almost like being a sausage in a tight skin. And yet, the pressure was not enough to aggravate her injuries, in fact, the mesh provided a sense of security, reinforcing the idea that her guts _could not_ tumble out of the wounds if those injuries ever tore badly.

She'd had nightmares about that several times, waking up cold and sweating. Shivering at the memory, she tried to move, finding that while the armor was bulky—as all hardsuits of this nature were—it was still easy to move in, relatively speaking. She had always been a medium-weight armor sort of person.

"Right," Dr. Curtis took one more scan, before nodding her approval. "I'm done with you here; you'll need to find Operative Taylor, he's responsible for armaments."

"Thank you, Dr. Curtis." Even as she said it, Shepard missed Dr. Chakwas again. It was this pang of the heart that sped her on her way to find Jacob, carefully conditioning herself to walk without lumbering like a sulky bear while wearing the heavy armor.


	36. Uncomfortable

Shepard and Miranda were making Jacob severely uncomfortable. The amazing thing was that neither woman had said a word, neither had so much as looked at him or—as a matter of fact—at one another. Jacob could almost imagine both of them surrounded by mass effect fields that prevented them from noticing or interacting with one another.

Miranda sat at the shuttle controls, calm, collected, unruffled—exactly how Jacob was accustomed to seeing her.

Shepard sat with her eyes closed in her much-despised heavy armor, clearly pulling herself together in a sort of pre-mission meditation. Or, Jacob amended, that was how it looked to him.

And yet there as a sort of hum in the air, a tension that he couldn't quite describe but which was definitely generated by his fellow teammates. It wasn't hostility…more like 'armed neutrality', a sense of situational awareness that made the skin around his headjack tingle.

Miranda spoke first, and only because her remark was pertinent. "We're nearly there, Commander."

Shepard stood up, one hand expertly finding the handhold nearest to her, like a passenger on a subway. "Anything I should know, Agent Lawson?"

'Agent' and not 'Operative'. No one missed the subtle statement _there. _

So it was to be a mutual attitude of 'strictly business'. Jacob had the gut feeling that if anything would keep those two from butting heads it would be keeping everything strictly business—no personal questions, no discussions of ideology, no comparison of likes and dislikes. They could function professionally—though what else people would expect he wasn't sure.

It was the downtime that left him feeling uneasy. Both women were very used to certain roles—so what happened when team dynamic went inactive and left them to their own devices during off-duty hours?

Or maybe it was just the tension making him uncomfortable: it was entirely possible—given what he knew about Miranda and guessed about Shepard—that neither was ever really 'off duty'.

-J-

"The Illusive Man put us under your command." Miranda was used to giving orders but was also used to tailoring her actions to the Illusive Man's orders. If he said 'it's Shepard's show' then it would be—but that didn't mean Miranda was second fiddle. She did not like not having complete control of the situation, but she knew Shepard well enough to know that Shepard would not make stupid mistakes due to the clash of egos. She would defer if Miranda exhibited that the situation was out of Shepard's scope due to lack of information or lack of options.

None of this meant that Miranda had to like being second-in-command—but given the situation it was a weightier responsibility than most might expect.

Shepard was blind when it came to working through Cerberus channels—she'd need someone who could do that.

Shepard wouldn't want to interact with the Illusive Man more than she had to—so someone needed to do _that_.

Shepard's contacts were painfully limited, as were the Cerberus-independent resources available to her—so she needed someone who could manage the logistical side of things.

All in all, Shepard's job was simple: point the ship in the right direction and stand in the spray at the prow. Leave the real work to the metaphorical first mate, the navigator, and the quartermaster.

That long list of responsibilities made second-in-command far less…uncomfortable…for Miranda. Though, it _was_ a step down going from complete autonomy, the undisputed director of the Lazarus cell, to being Shepard's executive officer.

Miranda stilled the inner rankling: the mission came first. She might not like not being in control of it, but she was old enough and wise enough to recognize necessity.

And if Shepard got in trouble, Miranda was there to bail her out.

'Being in charge' was _all_ titular at this point—and Shepard was smart enough to know it and accept it.

Control was the thing, and Miranda was very good at assuming control of a situation. In this case, she only needed to be discrete…

…yet something told her that, while Shepard could take charge effectively in the field, discrete tactics were well within Shepard's range of skills.

"Do you have any orders, Commander?" Miranda asked neutrally. She could do this. It would just take discretion on her part. She, Miranda Lawson, was never truly out of control. She just didn't need to parade the fact.

-J-

Shepard was used to giving orders but also aware that doing so when badly under-informed could result in a massacre of her troops. She was also quite certain that Miranda—while not a candidate of Personality of the Year—would be every bit as invaluable as the Illusive Man implied.

As for the personality's shortcomings, Shepard had no room to throw stones: she'd been a rather cool, reserved, driving person for almost all her adult life. The difference was in how it manifested, and in Miranda's case it came with a sense of superiority which the woman broadcast loudly.

Shepard knew what that often meant: insecurities being covered up.

"Our first priority is to find any survivors."

"That's unlikely, Commander," Miranda announced, once she was certain Shepard's sentence really was complete. "No one was left at the other colonies. They were _completely_ deserted."

Shepard took a deep breath—more to quell her inner misgivings than for any other reason. "SOPs, Agent Lawson."

"Be nice to find _someone_," Jacob put in. "Anything's better than another ghost town."

Shepard smiled at the blatant attempt to moderate an argument that didn't exist. They must, she decided, be making him edgy. Poor Jacob: she sincerely hoped that he never found himself caught between Miranda and herself, even if it was just to back up one or the other in an argument.

There were few more uncomfortable positions she could think of.

"I'm going to land us at the edge of the colony: we can walk in. _If_ that's acceptable, Commander?" Miranda asked.

Shepard maneuvered herself into the copilot's seat. "You know your business, Agent Lawson."


	37. Unnatural

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Shepard prowled about as best she could in the clunky, insulating suit of armor. It felt like wearing a rapid transit bus, but at least it meant she shouldn't pop any more of those weird biogel packs.

She staunched the inward shudder at the thought of the packs and what they represented quite easily. The reality confronting her was worse, far worse. She had expected, when she understood she was facing an abducted colony, something like Mindoir. She expected smoking ruins, damages, weapon marks all over the place, corpses, low-hanging fumes and clouds of smoke (though this last bit had more to do with the imagination than probability).

It was nothing like that, and her preconceived notions had her braced for all the wrong things. She expected flashbacks, little flickers of memory to shred into her mind like broken glass or fragments of shrapnel, for her own experiences to overlay themselves, to make her feel as if she was _back there_ all over again.

It was nothing like Mindoir, nothing like any nightmare scene she could have conceived.

It was far worse.

The air hung cold, cold enough that the team's breaths froze on the air in little white puffs. The sky above was cloudy, though, and as she disembarked from the Kodiak it began to snow gently. "Should it be this cold?" she asked, more to break the oppressive silence than anything else. For all the sharp clarity of the air, the perception was that everything was frozen: that all the empty space before her was simply very clear glass, a solid, not a gas.

"Within normal parameters for this time of year," came Miranda's brisk answer.

Shepard nodded once to show she heard and moved forward, a sense of dread lodging in her stomach. She knew, now, that she would find no survivors. It was not like being on any ghost ship she had ever encountered; it was not like the Cerberus station where she first woke up. She _knew_ with every ounce of instinct she possessed that there was not one human left. Not one wounded adult, not one terrified child.

She moved into the first prefab she came across, waving Miranda and Jacob to fan out.

The prefab looked like the set of a horror movie: a meal lay on a table ready to eat—but the food had gone bad. The heater was still running, the lights were all on. It was as if everyone had suddenly vanished, their corporeal forms turning to smoke on the air.

She'd expected a surge of feelings, of anger, of pain for others who suddenly had a share in some of the most miserable of her experiences…

…except that this was outside her experiences. There was no anger, there was no pain, just a sense of confusion and cold resolution.

Napkins had slid to the floor—which meant _something_ had happened. No struggle, but certainly some manipulation of the humans who lived here. Why had no one fought back? Glancing to the door, she found shoes lined up in neat pairs—several pairs obviously belonged to young boys.

There were no signs of the typical last stand of adults protecting children.

It was unnatural. All of it, everything here, was unnatural in a way that made her teeth ache. Nothing was right, and for a moment Shepard had to wonder if she wasn't dead, or in a coma where all the strange events of the past few weeks were just…bad dreams.

But she knew better. Not even her jaded imagination could conceive the scene of a mass abduction that was so…sterile...yet so believable. Scenes of brutality she could imagine, even deal with, but this…

No blood spatter or structural damages, so obviously conventional (or unconventional) weapons were out. It lacked everything that, in her experience, defined what it was to _be taken away by force_.

_How_ had the humans been immobilized? There should have been _some _resistance. Such things were hardwired into most members of most species. When threatened with death some humans might cave in, but some would fight, particularly if children were present.

Was it an inhalant, then?

Drugs in the water? No, those would take too long.

_How_? Not _even_ a token attempt at defensive behaviors, or the table might have been knocked around, or the place settings would have been jarred past hastily set-down flatware.

She turned in a slow circle, looking for something, anything that might give her a clue as to what…

Shepard's breath caught, a loud sound in the silence, and she knelt to pick up the dark shadow, just out of the reach of the light in a doorframe. Here it was, the only evidence of fear. This would never have been cast away except in great joy or greater terror.

In this case it was terror. It gave her an idea of the direction from which the threat came: moving from the end of the prefab through which she came back to this spot.

She regarded the artifact in her hand—a hand suddenly shaky—as she rose. Jacob's heavy footsteps gave her a moment's warning, enough time to compose her expression into calm neutrality.

His eyes fell to the object in her hand and he suddenly looked as though someone had put him on the spot. He opened his mouth, but Shepard shook her head. "There's nothing to say about it. This whole thing is…unnatural. In the worst possible way."

"Looks like everyone just got up and left in the middle of dinner," Jacob noted to Miranda as she came in. His tone bore the same deep unease that pooled in Shepard's stomach.

Shepard said nothing but found the sleeping area that looked most likely to belong with the artifact in her hand. Leaning over, she laid the teddy bear—dropped by terrified hands—on the lower bunk, head cradled on the pillow, drooping quizzically to one side on a flimsy neck.

It seemed to ask 'where's my boy?'


	38. Confronted

Beta-read by Saberlin.

I do apologize for the delay—life gave me a couple of tripwires.

-J-

Tali'Zorah vas Neema took a deep breath, watching her own eyes narrow, reflected faintly in her visor. Every time Prazza opened his mouth, it became harder not to plant her fist in it. He was an idiot. 'Grade A', to quote the late Chief Williams.

"I keep _telling_ you, if we just run out there again, he's going to butcher us with those mechs. Unless," her eyes flashed so Prazza could see their vivid light, "you want to run around playing bait while the rest of us sneak up on him?"

Prazza subsided.

"Good, now, can we get back to work, or do you have other plans?"

Silence.

Despite the fact that the words and tone were all wrong, the words smacked of Shepard, and Tali knew it.

Shepard had been a good friend, a mentor in some ways, a simple example in others (sometimes an example of what _not_ to do). Shepard had enabled Tali's return to the Fleet with a gift that met and exceeded all expectations for Rael'Zorah's daughter. It was all she could do to follow Shepard's example; it was how she chose to honor Shepard's memory.

She did not disillusion herself: no one could fill Shepard's boots. But she could follow Shepard's example and, to her own surprise as much as others', she found she could lead in that same at-the-fore method as Shepard.

But she doubted even Shepard could do something about someone like Prazza, past staking him out for the mechs. She liked the idea of using him as bait, though… "We'll just have to move carefully," Tali continued, no one the wiser of her mental wandering. "Look," she cued the 3D map of the colony, "all we have to do is to get…"

The door hissed open. Tali was the first one on her feet, pistol leveled as three humans stopped dead. Two humans wearing Cerberus armor…

"Stop right there!" Prazza, the trigger-happy fool, was going to get everyone killed, especially because he saw Cerberus uniforms. Tali saw something else, something that made her blood run icy in her veins.

"Put it down," Tali said slowly, pointing her pistol at the ceiling. "_I said put it down, Prazza!_"

None of the three humans flinched, but the one that interested Tali most gave a discreet 'wait for it' gesture.

"You said you'd let me handle this." Tali's eyes jumped about the familiar face of Commander Shepard vas Normandy. "Shepard?" Her voice came out shakier than she would have liked. Her mind raced, there was no way Shepard could be here…and Tali did not believe in ghosts.

Shepard shifted, as though bracing for something. She wore a forced a smile, but the unease of running so unexpectedly into a former teammate remained palpable. Tali, in some corner of her mind, was glad her shock at seeing Shepard walking around, undeniably alive only _partially_ crowded out Shepard's presence with blatantly-identified Cerberus agents. Sometimes it was good to be suspicious...and Cerberus required automatic suspicion.

Still...

"Hey, Tali…" She pulled herself together, casting about for a moment before continuing, "You didn't get sick after the Normandy went down, did you? I saw you putting on your helmet when the medbay blew."

Tali's eyes widened. Only the real Shepard could have known about that… "I was sick as a frog for about a week but…but you're _alive_?" Tali wanted to hug Shepard, then smack the Commander around for making them all worry. Deeper down, however, whatever prompted Shepard to pull such a stunt would have to be some pretty damn good reason.

"I'm not taking any chances with Cerberus operatives!" Prazza snapped.

"Do you ever _not _piss people off?" Shepard demanded of the woman beside her.

"It was hardly Cerberus' fault, Commander," came the woman's retort.

"Put those weapons _down_!" The maxim _don't brandish it, unless you mean to use it_ echoed in Tali's head as she snarled the order. The real Shepard would be tolerant of weapons in her direction only to a point...and Prazza would make her nervous.

"'_Hardly?_" Shepard's eyes were fixed on Prazza.

Tali forced the barrel of Prazza's rifle towards the floor. "Don't do anything _stupid."_ If he could help it. "Shepard…why are you with _them_?" There had to be a reason, an extremely good reason. An even better reason than whatever one she had for having vanished like that.

Shepard sighed, looking as though she wished she could weasel out of this conversation altogether. "I did, I _really_ did die on the _Normandy_," her words were so cautious Tali knew Shepard was afraid to say something wrong, something that would somehow damage her credibility. Yet the crease between Shepard's brows indicated she knew the story sounded too far-fetched for anyone to believe.

It explained why she was with Cerberus: she had no alternatives. If Shepard was here Tali could tell anyone who asked why. She was looking into the missing humans.

"They rebuilt…resuscitated me, so I could look into these disappearances." She left it at that; either Tali could believe her, or not.

Tali _did_ believe Shepard, though perhaps this was not odd. Most of what Shepard said during the Saren-Sovereign business sounded too much to be true. It was Shepard's doom—a Cassandra complex, Joker had called it, in one of his more somber moments.

Before Tali could, in as neutral a fashion as possible, accept Shepard's explanation (with a hint of a demand for the whole story later), Prazza interrupted. "You'll pardon us for not taking you at your word, Cerberus."

"That's _Shepard_, soldier," Shepard snapped.

Tali actually smiled, but concealed her giggle. Oh, _that_ was Shepard all right.

"Lt. Commander. Spectre. Take your pick."

"Prazza, you may not realize this, but Shepard _will_ shoot you, and I'm not sure I can _stop _her." Tali's tone indicated she was not sure she would _want_ to stop Shepard. "So keep your finger off the trigger."

She could have sworn she saw Shepard's mouth twitch, as though she wanted to smile proudly.


	39. Trauma

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Shepard entered the room first, weapon leveled—just in case.

She quickly lowered it, finding the quarian—Veetor—sitting before a security console. It was clearly through this he had re-tasked the mechs, but also, where he seemed to be collating data. Or perhaps it was just something to do with his hands so he could feel busy. The quarian was small, or seemed to be, and left Shepard with the impression 'runt of the litter'. He mumbled to himself—a confused babble about monsters, swarms, and mechs—twitching and shaking his head every so often.

"Veetor?" she asked with calm steadiness, motioning Miranda to stay back. From the assertive way the biotic had stepped forward it was easy to see she meant to crowd the quarian—and Shepard knew better than to crowd the traumatized. She did not need to remind Miranda that this was a rescue—not a kidnapping—for the biotic arched her eyebrows then stepped back.

"No. No Veetor. Not here." With this, his speech degenerated again into protests and fearful babble.

"Never seen a guy this bad off," Jacob murmured.

"I don't think we're going to get anything coherent out of him. Not in this state," came Miranda's clinical assessment.

Shepard agreed, and as such, took off her helmet, putting it by the door. "Veetor." Shepard repeated, more firmly, before deciding that she was being written off as a voice in his head, or something similar. She examined the screens, then raised her omnitool. Within seconds the screens shut down, column by column until the room fell dark.

The quarian jumped, twitched, then turned about quickly. For a moment he seemed poised for a mad dash for freedom, but sank back into his chair. "You-you're _human_…how-how did the swarms not find you?" He got to his feet again. For a moment he seemed to teeter on reaching out to see if he could touch Shepard—or if his hand would go right through her.

"Who didn't find us?" Miranda demanded.

Shepard held up a hand, indicating Miranda should dial back her interrogation. She could appreciate the 'get down to it' attitude, but Veetor was fragile. Too much pressure and he might shatter, which would remove the possibility of getting information out of him.

Shepard took the burden of decision off him by reaching out her right hand, taking hold of his. The three fingered hand twitched within hers, surprised to find she was not a spectral form. Then his grip tightened, as though letting go would somehow make her less real. "We weren't here during the attack, Veetor."

Veetor pulled gently on Shepard's arm, and she followed the pressure. He wrapped his other hand around the one she had already offered him. "It was the monsters. The swarms," he said quietly, his voice breaking, his hands visibly shaking. "They took _everyone_."

"Easy," Shepard murmured. She disengaged her hand from Veetor's in order to put it on his shoulder. "Veetor. Do you need to tell me something?" She radiated all the calm sturdiness she could muster, hoping that she could gently coax what she needed to know from the quarian.

She wouldn't press if he started exhibiting increased distress.

"No. You don't know. You didn't see…" the quarian began to shake his head. "But I saw," he added in a low undertone. He turned sharply. Shepard found the bright lights of his eyes. For a moment he was totally lucid, one hand closing on the one she rested on his shoulder. "_I _saw _everything_." He turned his attention to the console, began working furiously at it. The screens came back on, but this time, instead of a jumble of images, they showed a sort of panorama.

"This is…security footage," Jacob noted.

"And hand cut—Shepard, he _pieced_ this together," Miranda declared, though more interested in the content than the feat of assembling it.

Shepard nodded, then her mouth fell open as a dark shape wandered into the image. "…the hell?" The sentiment was echoed by Jacob. All three humans closed in on the screen—though Miranda and Jacob made sure to avoid crowding the quarian as much as space permitted. Shepard's solid presence seemed to announce the necessity of not hemming in this shattered survivor.

"That…" Miranda leaned forward, touching the screen with one hand. "That's a _Collector_."

"No way…" Shepard's mouth fell open. It was the first time in a long time that she'd felt like an FNG hitting dirt for the first time. She'd _heard_ of Collectors, of course—they were the sea dragons of the age of ocean voyages—but to _see_ one was…unsettling. Very few people saw Collectors. Even fewer talked about them.

People who saw Collectors were like people who saw 'UFOs' back in the days when space travel was in its toddler years: they had the reputation for being crazy or for hallucinating after one beer too many.

"I'd agree with you, if I wasn't seeing them, Commander," Jacob appended, shaking his head. "This attack, though. It doesn't fit their profile. They like to lie low, make a deal then disappear back through their relay."

"More than that," Miranda chipped in, "they usually go through intermediaries if they want something. Or someone," she gave Shepard a significant glance. "It's not like them to take a personal interest in acquiring…" she let the sentence trail off tactfully.

"Things," Shepard agreed as two Collectors wrangled an inert human form into a sort of…pod. She wondered how she could feel so detached. Then she remembered herself after O'Conner's death. Some things were too big to feel, and her experiences paled at this apparently systematic removal of all humans present.

There was no chance to fight. There was no chance to run. All they could do was stand there until the monsters—to use Veetor's word—came and put them in small, dark spaces.

"Shepard." Shepard twitched, Miranda's voice cutting into her private downward spiral.

Shepard shook her head; there was nothing to say.


	40. Realize

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Miranda's HUD function, the one that relayed the biometric readings taken by Shepard's armor, flashed red, signaling an overstimulation of the parasympathetic nervous system. Which indicated, in layman's terms, that Shepard was gearing up to fight or run. Miranda could see how and why. Any idiot with eyes could.

"Shepard." The single word was enough to break Shepard's internal preoccupation. The Commander twitched, then began to re-master herself.

"The swarms," the quarian stammered to Shepard, "they find you. You can't hide. They find you. Freeze you. Then…" he looked at the footage, which he paused, "…then the monsters take you away."

"These seekers," Shepard began gently, "what are they? Organic? Synthetic? Hybrid?"

Veetor teetered as though on the edge of starting to scream like a lunatic, but he did not. "Yes. No. I don't know—like little…little bug-machines. Hybrid. Maybe. I don't know…"

"Easy." It was the kind of tone one might use on a skittish horse.

"Miniature probes, maybe. Nanites," Miranda announced. "Something injected into the bloodstream to induce a state of stasis—like a nerve toxin. Hell, if they could overstimulate certain chemicals humans naturally produce…" She let the sentence trail off tactfully. Of course, these were just guesses, and the fact remained that they could only _be _guesses, since the Collectors had very advanced technology. She could be totally wrong, and Miranda did not like admitting to the possibility of being wrong.

"Is that it?" Shepard asked. "They came, they took the colonists, then left?"

Veetor nodded quickly. "Yes. But they'll be back for me."

"No, Veetor," Shepard responded firmly. "They won't. Because you won't be here." Veetor seemed to perk up a little. "You've been very helpful—this is just what we needed to know. Thank you."

Shepard was putting it on a bit _thick_.

"I studied them," Veetor said suddenly, "took readings. Recorded them with my omnitool," he gestured with one arm. "Lots of readings. Electromagnetic. Dark energy_._"

Now _that_ was helpful. "We need that data. If we can get it to the Illusive Man we might be able to distill something really concrete from it. Grab the quarian—"

"Absolutely not!"

Miranda whipped about to find that at some point Tali had slipped into the building. Until now, the quarian remained silent.

"Veetor is _injured_! He's _damaged_! He needs treatment, _not _a Cerberus interrogation!" With that, Tali pushed past Jacob, past Miranda, and stood before Shepard.

Miranda's lip began to curl. This was…going to complicate matters, and from the look on Shepard's face…

"We won't hurt him," Jacob began. "We just need to see if he knows anything else. We'll return him unharmed."

Jacob might believe that but Shepard clearly didn't.

"Your people tried to betray us once already," Miranda pointed out flatly, "If we give him to you, we may never get the intel we need."

"Prazza was an _idiot,"_ Tali snapped, turning away from Shepard. "And he and his men paid for it." She turned her attention to Shepard with the air of slamming a door in the Cerberus operatives' faces. "You can have his omnitool data, but please, let me take him."

"There was never any question of where Veetor was going once he was safe," Shepard said firmly.

Miranda wanted to groan but suppressed the sound. Shepard didn't need to say anymore. Emotional involvement with a colony survivor _clearly_ outweighed any and all logic or reason.

"As much as we need his data, he needs treatment more. He's looking pretty rough…well, you know what I mean." Shepard shrugged.

When Miranda said nothing, choosing to let her silence speak for her, Shepard peered past Tali, pinning her with a gaze that clearly said 'articulate your comprehension'. "Understood, Commander," Miranda responded as neutrally as she could.

She didn't trust the quarians to go through with passing along the data. She just didn't trust them to do it.

"Thank you, Shepard," Tali said, settling down. "I'm glad you're the one still giving the orders."

"How are your men?" Shepard asked.

"A mess. They won't bleed out…" her tone implied that she'd given them minimal care because she mistrusted Cerberus being left alone with Veetor.

"But you could still use a few pairs of hands. I get it. All right, let's lend a hand and get these quarians patched up and shipped out."

"Shepard, a moment, if you would?" Miranda asked as Tali, Veetor, and Jacob filed out.

Shepard waited patiently.

"I don't like this. Those quarians are never going to send you that data. They know you're…sympathetic…to victims of things like this." Miranda waved to indicate the colony at large. It was a legitimate concern, even if the Fleet and Cerberus hadn't had a few…complications…in the past.

Shepard would undoubtedly get that story from Jacob at a later date.

To Miranda's surprise, Shepard smiled. "I understand your concerns. If I was dealing with Prazza's men I'd have a few more than a few reservations myself."

But not enough to keep Veetor for proper questioning, Miranda was certain. Still, it mollified her somewhat to hear it…which made her stiffen with realization that Shepard was working those characteristics which had, according to so many, made her such an exemplary leader. It was the first time in a long time she had actually believed words she usually interpreted as a write-off of her concerns.

Damn, but Shepard was _dangerous_, more so than she, Miranda, originally hypothesized. Suddenly, the idea of surrounding Shepard with so many former Alliance and fringe Cerberus members—an attempt to put her at her ease—seemed like an open invitation for trouble. Put Shepard in a group already sympathetic to her character and cause and she could very well inspire them to mutiny.

Successfully.

"But you don't know Tali like I do," Shepard continued, "Give her an address that can accept the data she'll send and she she'll send it."

Miranda swallowed her distaste. "Yes, Commander."

"If you don't want to help patch up the quarians, you can bring the shuttle around."


	41. Whisper

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Shepard worked silently alongside Tali, wondering how many of the downed quarians would make it back to the fleet. The medical attention here was rudimentary at best, medigel to plug a hole in the flesh, omnigel to plug a hole in a suit.

"Shepard," Tali murmured softly, watching the dark-haired woman consulting her omnitool. "What's going on here?"

Tali's luminous green eyes peered out of Shepard's reflection. "I wish I knew." She looked back down, applying pressure as the quarian beneath her hand groaned. "Look, I woke up about a month ago on a table in a medbay. They tell me it's been two years, and that I've been dead."

"You believe them?" The worry, doubt, disorientation in Shepard's voice was good to hear…but Cerberus? Who knew what they could have done to the Commander? She could almost see a list of the cells the _Normandy's_ crew disbanded, rachni, thorian creepers, that poor Corporal…and Commander Sheffler.

No, Shepard had not forgotten any of that, in fact, it was probably more in the fore of Shepard's mind than anything else.

"I _feel_ like I was dead," Shepard grunted noncommittally. "And…all the clocks say two years…and the Council's back to its old tricks…" She bit her lip, absently pressing too hard, making the quarian squirm in pain.

Tali reached over, grabbing Shepard above the elbow. The soldier promptly released pressure with a mumbled apology. "Have you contacted your Captain? Or…well, I suppose Alenko is still with the Alliance?"

"I'll contact Anderson as soon as I can," Shepard lowered her voice, giving Miranda a sharp look, glad to find the Cerberus agent not looking at her. "As for Alenko…"

"Eh," Tali nodded in commiseration, "he does like things plain and above the table. He was…he was very hurt when you died. We all were." There, she used the word 'died'. It meant trusting that Cerberus had told Shepard the truth, but it reinforced that _she_, at least, trusted Shepard.

"Part of the reason I wanted to keep quiet, until I didn't have much of a choice. With the crew, I mean." She knew what kind of enemies lay at the end of this road: Cerberus may have brought her back only to have her die again, once more in the line of duty.

Tali nodded. "They won't hear it from me…but won't your Alliance try to get you out, once they realize you're alive?"

Shepard exhaled. "I hope so." Cutthroat mercenary logic indicated if the Alliance did not back her, she would have little choice but to remain with Cerberus for the time being. Someone had to do something. Throwing rocks and waving pitchforks was not going to stop the Reapers. As distasteful as she found it, she had to admit the possibility of staying, if only for the sake of others, existed.

It was like selling her soul…but surely the Alliance wouldn't leave her here, caught in Cerberus' teeth. She had very few occasions in her life to feel hope of rescue, but this was certainly one of them.

"Shepard…I can pass word to them, to your Captain, I mean, and he can put it through to wherever it needs to go. Nice and quiet—the only way anyone else would find out is if Anderson trusted them enough to tell them." Tali's voice dropped much lower. "They can't come get you if they don't know you're alive…or where you are."

"I don't even know where I am, half the time," Sheppard answered. "But…if you can, I'd appreciate it."

Tali smiled behind her facemask. "For the one who kept hauling my ass of trouble? I'll get the message through, if I have to drive a CRT car into the Captain's office."

Shepard gave a bark of strained laughter, her smile fading quickly. "_That_ would be something to see."

"Commander?" Jacob had slipped into the prefab unnoticed, but out of earshot of the murmured conversation. He had spent enough time in the Alliance to know what was going on: Shepard was arranging word of her wellbeing and predicament to be delivered to the brass. She was in SERE mode, and would continue to be until she realized the Alliance wouldn't want to hear from her.

It was sad to see her cling so desperately to the hope of rescue when there was no hope of it. She was strong, the realization of the reality would not break her, but it would certainly shake her…and still not win anything more than grudging acceptance of Cerberus' help.

Miranda already had to know what Shepard was doing, and permitted it only so Shepard could sleep at night, thinking she had done what she could to follow the codes she had lived for twelve years…from seventeen up until her death at twenty-nine.

"Yes, Mr. Taylor?" Shepard shifted to give him her full attention, her face almost bleakly neutral without the scars that would have moderated her expression.

"The quarians are all packed up, nice and tight," Jacob relayed briskly. "We can start moving the wounded whenever Tali'Zorah is ready."

Shepard pursed her lips, moistening them with her tongue, as though considering the insane plan of shooting him, shooting Miranda, and hitchhiking back to Alliance space. She thought about this for a moment, but almost immediately dismissed it.

Not only would it do no good, she could not shoot Jacob in cold blood. Jacob seemed a fairly honest, hands-on-the-table person. The galaxy did not have enough of those. He was simply running with a bad crowd. It happened.

"Excellent. Tali, at your direction."

It would be so much easier to just take Shepard back to the Flotilla...but two years as an adult, and some of that in various positions of leadership in the field left her with a better taste for why Shepard did some of the things she did.

Shepard would not risk bringing any more Cerberus attention to the Flotilla.

It was all Tali could do to bring Shepard's whisper for help to the right ears.


	42. Reunion

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Shepard's mouth pursed as the Illusive Man cut the connection, her teeth grinding as she resisted the urge to spray a half-dozen creative profanities in his direction. "At my funeral," she finally sighed in irritation, "somebody remember to play '_Funeral March of a Marionette_'. Nothing else would be appropriate."

She was so sick of being a puppet, maneuvered this way and that. The Alliance had a right to do so, but as much as she contested that Al-Jilani woman's 'throwing humanity a bone' comment, she did feel she had been thrown to the Spectres like a hunk of steak to a caged tiger.

No one cared about that steak as long as it did its job.

"At least you've got your sense of humor—but that's morbid."

Shepard turned sharply, moving automatically for a pistol she was not wearing, but her muscles relaxed, like a spring slowly uncoiling as her eyes fed data to her brain. It looked like Joker, except without crutches. Yes, he did move gingerly, with great care, hobbling and ungainly, but he was moving about without any visible means of support.

The change made her vague uneasy, as inconsistencies between memory and actuality did, but above the Cerberus black-and-whites smirked a scruffy face she knew all too well.

'_Yeah, they'd probably make me shave, too,' he noted wryly, rubbing his beard as he weighed his options. 'I've been working on this baby for three months; no medal's worth that.' _

The last sound of the last human voice she heard in the living world screamed between her ears, accompanied by a flash of memory like an exploding firework: _Shepard! __  
_ "…Joker?"

He knew she meant to call him Jeff. She'd only done it once, and that was when telling him the girl he'd once loved was not breaking hearts around the galaxy, but had been in a grave for nearly ten years. "Hey, Commander." He smiled at her, but at the same time part of him struggled against trusting her based on her face. He did not trust Cerberus any more than the real Shepard had.

Doubly so now.

But it was hard to maintain that mistrust, when she looked like a drowning woman who had just had a lifeline thrown to her, watching as it landed just out of reach.

She mouthed for a moment, but shook her head slowly, before walking up to him. It was not her 'go kill it' look, or her 'too lazy to go kill it' look. She apparently had as much trouble believing he was here—and himself—as he had believing in her. Well, at least they were in the same boat, even if he was apparently hiding the mistrust better.

Shepard's throat felt thick, as if she wanted to cry. She shouldn't, she knew that, but seeing one familiar face, a friend, in the middle of this forsaken station meant something. She hated the Illusive Man for buying off her crewmen but she immediately absolved Joker of any weakness for being bribed.

There was something detached in his eyes, but she dismissed it. _She_ would be skeptical, if she were standing in his boots. She was already skeptical of her own existence, if it came down to that.

For a long moment she and Joker stood in studious silence. Suddenly Shepard broke it, striding towards him.

Joker expected an angry barrage—what did you say to the man who, essentially, got you killed? Nothing very polite, but it was better to have it over with, doppelganger or not. He remembered her directly after Virmire, before the threat of being relieved of command was made.

It was worse than he could have ever expected, partly because he was braced for the wrong emotional backlash. He expected her to shout, to rage, call names, hurl insults and threats of bodily harm—those things would make _sense_. He even left room in his expectations for her to break a couple bones (accidentally or otherwise).

She did none of this.

Shepard was not a woman used to showing displays of affection. The long-standing practice shattered as she and Joker stood in silence. She wrapped her arms around him, her sharp chin digging into his shoulder.

Joker's posture straightened. Unexpected, completely unexpected.

"I don't care why you're here," Shepard whispered, her voice tinged with a palpable pain. Joker relaxed marginally, awkwardly returning the gesture, patting her on the back. He wished Chakwas was here—the doc would know better how to deal with Shepard… "I'm just glad you are."

Her eyes stung, and she rolled them towards the ceiling to stop the tears trying to gather there. She was not usually weepy, but somehow…she felt painfully vulnerable. Out of her depth.

_That_ was like a kick to the stomach, Joker thought. He got her killed and now she was glad to have him around. Was there any worse way to get back at someone?

Joker closed his eyes. He knew she meant to do it quietly enough that he wouldn't notice, but forgot that when you were that close to a person's ear, it was really hard to let sniffles go unnoticed. Her grip tightened marginally.

"Come on, Shepard…don't-don't do that…"

"I'm sorry." She let him go, hastily stepping back. Her face was pink-tinged, her eyes a little bloodshot, but there were no traces of tears either on her face or on his shirt. "Sorry Joker…been a long...a long couple days."

"No worries." Strangely enough, it was Shepard showing this uncharacteristic mortal frailty that persuaded him that this might _be_ Shepard, the real deal. He could not say why; maybe because she wasn't acting as though nothing had happened, or taking the whole matter with the same attitude she would have towards recovering from a broken arm. "It's, uh, it's good to see you, too. You know…in one piece."

"Yeah," she reached up absentmindedly to touch the scarring on her face, flinching as she did so. "So…w-what're you doing _here?"_


	43. Nix

The new _Normandy_ was more than Shepard could have hoped for—even if she maintained it was just a copy.

It might have come to fill part of the hole left by the original Normandy's loss, but only if the familiar faces of the crew were there. Now, it was just a carbon copy manned by unfamiliar faces.

So she told herself.

She had to find a way to lead a Cerberus crew without getting them all killed. It meant she had to find a way to trust them to do their jobs and to take her orders, without having to filter everything through Miranda…

…no, that was wrong. Miranda had, thus far, minded her Ps and Qs, ever since Freedom's Progress. Shepard did not think Miranda liked playing second-in-command, but she did it, and would probably continue to do it to the best of her ability.

Shepard suspected Miranda's 'best' would be impressive at the very least.

She liked Jacob, trusted him more than anyone else on this ship (barring Joker, but Joker was no good in a planetside hot zone), but she had yet to see him in his capacity as master-at-arms. She had also yet to see him faced with anything more than security mechs.

He was no Kaidan Alenko, biotically speaking, but she suspected he could hold his own. He wouldn't be here if he couldn't, of _that_ she was certain. This would be just like any good unit, no superfluous bodies. Everyone had a job, knew their job, and did it.

Very important, when bullets started flying, and make no mistake, she expected block after block of bullets. At the moment the thought didn't concern her. A soldier learned not to worry about flying bullets until they became an impending threat in a short-term forecast.

All differences aside, Shepard's perception of the extent of that ability indicated she really did have the best person for the job. If Miranda and Joker were any indication, she probably had many people here who were the best at what they did.

If nothing else, the Illusive Man was digging out anything that could increase the chances of 'mission successful'.

"Welcome aboard the _Normandy_, Commander," Miranda declared as Shepard took in the CIC.

She knew Shepard detested the Cerberus logos, but the Commander said nothing. She knew how to pick her battles, and this one was not only trivial, she would lose it. Miranda did not expect to garner Shepard's enthusiasm with this ship, nor engender any good feelings through the attention to detail in keeping it as much to the original as possible where possible, given the upgrades and changes.

She privately felt there was no way of winning Shepard over and still wished for a control chip. Something discreet, something no one would ever need to know about, until the time came to use it. Here was hoping the Commander stayed blindly dedicated to stopping the Collectors.

Then remained blindly determined to stop the Reapers.

Miranda put less faith in Shepard's greater-good minimal-collateral-damage motivations than the Illusive Man.

"Good morning, Commander Shepard. Operative Lawson. Operative Taylor. Welcome aboard."

"This the ship's VI?" Shepard examined the projection, a little blue ball—more like the basic shapes for a cartoon character's head and neck—with a vertical bar that expanded and contracted as the VI spoke. "What's she call herself?" It was a scrappy VI projection, but far less distracting than the segments of holographic code that described a VI's form, which an onlooker would perceive as 'shape'.

At least this one was not hanar-polite. The excessive courtesy rankled her, since as often as not it interfered with getting the information she wanted or needed.

She agreed with that krogan, some days: _tell me what I want to know, or I'll blast your virtual ass into actual dust_.

"This is EDI, the ship's AI…" Miranda began cautiously, even if her tone was purely businesslike.

Shepard did not take a step back, but she bristled before turning a sharp look to Miranda. "Get that thing off my ship."

"Commander, it's a shackled AI, and we need ever ad—"

"Nix that thing or I'll rip it out myself." She did not care what kind of damage that might cause. She'd had enough of AI and she wasn't going to let a sequel to the geth-quarian conflict beak out on her own ship.

"I am sorry," the AI spoke up, almost diffidently, "have I offended?"

"Commander Shepard is used to AI in the form of geth, EDI. She's…fought at lot of them."

Shepard's expression remained hard in the wake of Miranda's explanation.

EDI silently processed for a few minutes. "I understand. The Commander's reaction is based off personal experience, not popular stereotype."

Shepard felt it was too much to ask her to work with Cerberus _and_ an AI.

"Commander," Jacob tapped her arm to get her attention. "That thing's hardwired in; getting EDI out would be like trying to carve out metastasized cancer with a laser cutter. You'll just kill your patient."

Shepard did _not_ want to lose another _Normandy_. The thought made her throat constrict. She might change her mind once she became acclimated to the time disconnect, but right now the _Normandy_ was familiar.

"So what is it, exactly, you do?" Shepard addressed herself stiffly to the little blue orb.

"I am responsible for the cyber-defense and cyber-warfare suites. I also serve various security functions. I am bound by certain blocks and protocols; it is impossible for me to overstep my current capabilities."

"Look, I know you don't like it, but you may be glad to have her later," Jacob broke in again, catching a discrete jerk of the chin from Miranda. Miranda was not the most reassuring, soothing person in the world. Neither was he, but relatively speaking he was the lesser of two evils.

"We'll see." Shepard let the matter drop. It was with great difficulty that she continued on, leaving the AI to watch her leave.


	44. Tribute

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Kaidan Alenko was sick to his stomach, but not enough to pop the anti-nausea pills he had caught some of the crewmen discreetly swallowing. The scene was enough to make anyone sick: the signs of battle—according to the recovery team—did not seem to line up with the original disaster.

'Disaster'. He snorted, rolling his eyes. This was bad, yes, but 'disaster' implied some kind of catastrophic, perfectly explainable event. It did _not_ explain the sudden vanishing of an entire colony without warning, nor why the colony should look like a couple of commandos had combed over it, nor yet why there was evidence of dead bodies having been removed.

Furthermore, according to the overseeing doctor from the medical branch of the team, all the blood samples turned up were all quarian.

_Quarian_.

But the YMIR mech told a different story: the weapon marks—so said ballistics—hinted that there were two fighting forces. Quarian weaponry tended to be fairly standard: they could get standardized weapons cheaply and in bulk. Some of the other marks implied—the ballistics expert was careful not to say anything with certainty—that the other weapons present were of higher quality. The slugs recovered certainly hinted at a higher grade. Someone here had a shotgun: there was shot all over the place.

Shotgun shot, the shells of heavy pistols and rifle casings.

Shotguns weren't great for fighting YMIR mechs. And that one, along with several of the colony's security mechs, showed extensive biotic or tech damage. Blown processors, warped boulders of steel, or a combination of the two studded the way from the landing site his crew had eschewed to the very heart of the colony.

It seemed to him as though they'd started at the end of the story and were working their way back.

He moved along the line of combat, using the mech corpses and bullet holes as guides. That made sense: start at the fringes where there was the least resistance and move in. The team had, at one point, diverged. Although there was only one trail of bullets and destruction, ballistics had already pointed out that there were none of the low-grade shells present. Just the high-grade stuff belonging to the mysterious group dubbed 'the commandos'.

He couldn't help but want to accept this title: while the tactics implied by the scene here suggested military training that did not mean much. Those tactics were widely used. But it begged a lot of questions: who was here? Quarians, what did they want with a human colony? Tali had come to the Citadel on Pilgrimage, but she was alone—did quarians sometimes group up to go on Pilgrimage? But why here? It was so out of the way.

That explained why Freedom's Progress was attacked: it was out of the way.

He entered one of the prefabs the crew had not yet been over, waving a hand to show he heard the warning not to disturb anything. He knew better than to move things around; this might not be a crime scene, but if what happened here were ever to be reconstructed with any accuracy…

What accuracy? The only proof anyone had ever been here consisted of the colony's structures, blood, wrecked mechs, and lots of firearm damage and casings. Not only was it impossible for the mechs to have done this, but someone had showed up _later_ to clear them out, so this strike team (or whatever they were) were probably not the ones who abducted the humans.

But there were _no _organic bodies of any kind, and only quarian blood. What happened to the humans?

He peered around into a room—clearly shared by adults—and then across the hall. This one belonged to children—a pair of boys, if the décor was anything to go by (someone had not quite successfully hidden dirty socks under the lower bed of the bunk bed).

On impulse he got down on one knee, shining his lamp into the space, half-hoping to find a child huddled in a place that was both the safest and scariest place to a young child.

Under the bed. It was a good place to hide, but 'things' lurked under it when the room was dark.

No child. He straightened up, a hand on the mattress to help himself to his feet.

That was when Alenko caught sight of the bear, immediately knowing it was out of place on the childish attempts at a neatly-folded blanket. Something about the bear's position smacked of reverent treatment, a small homage to those now lost.

His heart ached: for a moment he could almost see Shepard in her blue BDUs leaning over to pick the bear up, cradling it in both hands, her expression drawn, her gaze introspective. She'd had younger brothers who would have probably had something like that ragged, obviously much-loved creature.

Strange how she should come to mind now…or was it?

He reached over the bed, catching the quizzical cant of the bear's head, the way its beady eyes reflected his helmet's lamp. Carefully, he lifted the toy from its position, reclining against the pillow. No toy this much loved would be snoozing on a pillow when its boy was up and about.

He had to smile ruefully: was that logic, or personal experience talking? Or was it just a way to cope, to push out some of the fear of the unknown this place conjured up? No one wanted to speak aloud, voices tended to be restrained to low murmurs as if in reverence for those who were…gone.

He'd caught himself doing it, and had redoubled his efforts _not_ to. It made the place seem more ominous, all the hush-hush.

He looked back down at the bear before gently putting it back on the bed, lying on its side. The way its arms and legs fell, it looked as though it was asleep. Asleep while it waited.

It could be waiting a very, very long time.


	45. Subtle

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Kelly Chambers clutched her datapad to her chest, as Miranda and Jacob both followed Commander Shepard into the CIC proper. Unsurprisingly—from the throwaway bug hidden cleverly in the Commander's shirt—the Commander immediately snapped about getting EDI 'off my ship'.

Unexpected, though, was the low tone the Commander used. Chambers had no illusions that if Miranda did not talk fast (or if Jacob was not quicker on the snatch-and-grab of peoples' wrists than he was on catching tiny details) Shepard would simply shoot wherever she thought the AI might be—and demolish the ship in the process.

But at least the reaction was within the parameters she would call 'usual'. Unobtrusively, she made a tic mark on her datapad. She would have worried if Shepard took to the AI too quickly. Now she had to worry Shepard would not accept its presence at all. That could decrease efficiency on this mission.

EDI was listed as mission critical.

Miranda was one of Cerberus' best; it showed with the speed at which she filled EDI in, as Jacob leaned over to Shepard, speaking quietly. He must have hit the nail on the head, because Shepard seemed to abandon the argument about the AI. For the moment, at least.

With practiced unobtrusiveness, Chambers reached up, disengaging the earpiece that linked her to Shepard's audio feed. Having the feed and the Commander too close together made static, and that static gave way to one ear ringing for half the night. She only needed to eavesdrop when Shepard was at a distance, or when EDI could not—which would not be often.

"Good morning Commander!" Chambers put on her biggest, brightest smile, eyes open wide with an enthusiasm she did not particularly feel. It was good to see Lazarus walking around; better that all preliminary tests pointed to a successful resuscitation (Chambers did not like the use of the word 'resurrection'. She was certain Shepard would not like it either, and had counseled the people who needed to know not to use it, if they could help it).

Shepard looked her up and down. "Good morning."

Chambers' smile became much more genuine. This was the tricky part. Shepard was a suspicious woman by experience; she almost had to be, especially when one looked at where she started and where she was now. Shepard was also surrounded by 'the enemy', which would make her prickly to deal with at the very least. Files indicated the Council thought her attitude needed introducing to an emery board—take some of the rough edges off.

But Shepard had her weak spots, and it was for those Chambers aimed.

"Who're you?"

Chambers pulled herself up, still smiling. "Yeoman Kelly Chambers, and I must say, it's a great pleasure to work with you, Commander Shepard." A little glitter in the eyes, a little grating on the ears (and the nerves)…

Shepard's face contorted, as though a dog had just begun to speak plain English. "Good to meet you, Yeoman…"

"Please, Just Kelly," she stuck out a hand, which Shepard shook slowly, as though afraid something might rub off on her.

No, she was looking for something, something she apparently did not find.

"So, what exactly do you do here, Yeo—Kelly?"

Chambers knew she had just lost ground in guiding Shepard's perception of her. Shepard refused, whether she knew it or not, to equate Chambers with a civilian. Shepard would unconsciously constantly remind herself that Chambers was _not_ a wide-eyed idealist, but a member of Cerberus, an adult, and not to be safety-wrapped.

Shepard had a thing about kids, as everyone knew. And yet, the fact also remained Shepard did not try to insist on using rank in place of a name. "I'm your administrative assistant; I'll let you know when new messages arrive," and screen them first, "or, if there's something concerning the crew that needs your attention, I'll let you know. I'm just here to take a little bit of stress out of your day, that's all. Goodness knows you'll have enough as it is!"

The glaring sweet perkiness she had hit Miranda with before Freedom's Progress had, as Chambers expected, failed to hold up in Shepard's presence. But that was the idea: instead of being absolutely irritating, she was simply 'some kid Cerberus scooped up'. Or that was the hope.

Shepard glanced over at Jacob, to Chamber's surprise, asking some unspoken question. Jacob gave his shoulders a twitch, which evidently did not convey anything Shepard wanted or needed to understand. "Well, thank you, Chambers. Is there _any_ coffee on this ship?" she mumbled to Jacob.

Jacob smiled, his white teeth showing vividly against his dark skin. "Down one floor, Commander—you can pick some up while you're doing the tourist thing."

Shepard snorted.

Well, she was at least bonding with _someone_ on the crew. Intel was right—she was taking to the human biotic very well indeed. Chambers and Miranda knew why Jacob was here on the Normandy (aside from the obvious tactical and strategic reasons). Yes, he was there to back Miranda, yes he was tactically a sound choice…but he also represented a vague semblance of familiarity for Shepard.

He was a soldier, a biotic, and a decent individual. He shared many traits with Shepard's last surviving teammate—well, her last surviving _human _teammate. If the Illusive Man had any hopes that Shepard might 'take' to Jacob as anything but a comrade, _perhaps_ a friend, Chambers could have told him it would never happen.

Shepard might overlook the Cerberus tags on Jacob's uniform, but there were too many places she had been that Jacob hadn't, could never get to. The places where the same path over different landscape existed were few.

"Wake up, Chambers." Miranda murmured softly as Shepard followed Jacob to the elevator, commenting loudly—as Chambers re-cued the audio link—that it was a good idea for the briefing room to be tucked away so far from the CIC.

"Give her time. She'll integrate."


	46. Good Hands

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

"Commander Shepard," Dr. Chakwas was not fond of surprises. In her line of work surprises too often were unpleasant, extra shrapnel, bullets, the results of explosions or knocks to the head. Occasionally something to do with biotic displays (or overextension of biotics). This time, however, she was handing out the surprise and took great satisfaction in doing so. "I watched the _Normandy_ crumple with you still on board," she rose gracefully from her chair. "It's good to see you, alive and whole."

Shepard's expression of incredulity (as though wondering if she had finally started having hallucinations because of a mental breakdown), was worth a great deal to Dr. Chakwas. "Doc?" The question came out very softly, almost as though Shepard was afraid speaking loudly might make the image before her eyes go away.

"Yes, Commander?"

Shepard's smile widened, then brightened, lightening her eyes several shades. Dr. Chakwas was older, her hair was whiter, the lines around her eyes more pronounced…but the face was the same, the gentle, firm, reassuring tone was the same. Even the almost stately way she moved hadn't changed.

Finally, something that seemed timeless, unchanged, in a galaxy that had moved on without Shepard.

And she was here, on a Cerberus vessel, right when Shepard would have given almost anything to have someone she could trust holding the aspirin and the sugar cubes. "Hey…w-what are doing here?" Relief, utter relief that it was _her doctor_ and not some Cerberus butcher in the medbay made her almost limp with relief.

She had had enough of Cerberus doctors to last her a lifetime and, if she could help it, she never wanted another one to touch her. Ever.

"Someone has to keep you up to date on all your shots, and stand by with the band-aids." Dr. Chakwas chuckled. "I know what sort of trouble you marines get into."

Shepard's turn to laugh, though it was short-lived. There were lots of outdated terms and concepts used when doctors spoke to their patients in such a light fashion. "Didn't expect to find you working with Cerberus, Doc."

"I don't work with Cerberus," and Dr. Chakwas caught the implication, and appreciated the vote of confidence, "I work for you. On a mission that might be critical to the survival of our species…" When Shepard's look of watery gratitude changed to shock at the apparent buying-into of Cerberus' party line Dr. Chakwas snickered softly. "Sorry, Shepard…critical to the survival of the galaxy as we know it."

"That's _awful_. Be nice to us poor, dumb jarheads." She did not expect the plea for sympathy she neither wanted nor needed to sway the doctor. Thus, she was not disappointed.

Dr. Chakwas arched her eyebrows, in mock shock. "Be nice? Don't I always numb you up very well before I go poking about to pick out bullets? Didn't I keep a jar of lollipops for exiting patients by the door of the original medbay?"

Shepard ducked her head shamefacedly. The doctor _did_ keep a jar like that—and yes, Shepard remembered at least one occasion where she dipped in upon being released.

Unfortunately, the candies had been pretty well picked over by that time, whittled from five or six flavors down to grape and green.

Ugh, she hated the green ones.

"And am I not the one who keeps soft tissues for stuffy noses—instead of those crunchy standard-issue tissues? Tissues…you could stuff gift bags with those things, if they weren't so terribly ugly."

"Before or after they get all booger-covered?"

Dr. Chakwas choked at the perfect innocence in Shepard's tone, an innocence of which there was no trace on the soldier's face. She would, Shepard decided, have to buy Dr. Chakwas another jar to go by the door. And fill it. Without the green ones.

Or grape. People didn't like grape.

"An excellent question…and I'm not sure of the answer."

"I'll give you some time to think about it, then," Shepard pounded a fist gently against the tabletop, unsure of how else to break up the conversation. If she was going to chat, she wanted to be able to sit down and do it without feeling crunched for time or plagued by responsibility. "I gotta go—people to memorize, you know?"

"I do know," Dr. Chakwas expected Shepard to make her exit several minute ago. "I wish you luck."

"Hey doc?" Shepard paused by the door, turning around to regard Dr. Chakwas again. It sounded dumb but…Dr. Chakwas and Joker were what she had. All she had.

"Yes, Shepard?" It had taken Shepard months to switch from 'Dr. Chakwas' to 'Doc'. Dr. Chakwas took it as a sign of trust, that Shepard felt she was in good hands if she was ever hurt.

"See you for dinner?" Shepard nodded at the empty mess hall.

"Of course."

"Ask Joker?"

Joker would be less likely to turn down Dr. Chakwas and they both knew it. Dr. Chakwas also happened to know that Joker still felt badly over what happened two years ago, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

"Nineteen hundred?"

"Nineteen thirty. It's going to be a long day for me…and you know how Joker can be." Shepard was still trying to keep names and faces straight, trying to look past the Cerberus uniforms.

At least Dr. Chakwas' was mostly hidden by her lab coat.

"Good. Shepard?" Dr. Chakwas held up a datapad.

"Ah, my records…was it bad?"

Dr. Chakwas was not surprised Shepard had made very few inquiries—none, if the question was any point of reference—into the rebuilding process. The answer was 'yes'. "It wasn't good, but if your scars still hurt, I have a couple creams for them. We'll talk about it later, when you've got a little less on your plate." Whenever that was, but Shepard would make time for medical concerns.

It did no one any good if she could not function; Shepard was smart enough to know not to put off medical care for too long.


	47. Cruel

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Shepard looked into the recorder, bit her lip, then took a deep breath.

_I know that I can't possibly send this to you…but I need to use the words. It's frustrating that I can't even use them freely—I'm certain, she dropped her voice, leaning close to the recorder, the evil AI is spying on me, and running everything I say through a filter to see if it can't figure out who you are. I'll have to be really careful… but I'm not sure that'll help. I'm running jamming protocols but...well, this is a little past my training. Tali could probably work something though...if she was here. _

She straightened, glanced around the room, then picked up the recorder and returned to the sleeping area of her quarters. _I think the real reason I'm doing this at all is because I need to think…and I need the 'you' inside my head to give me advice. So I write to you and hope that the 'you' in my head will help me come to the right conclusion. _

_Don't worry—I'm as sane as I ever was. It just sounds funny when I say it out loud. I'm sure you've got a 'me' inside your head, too. _Shepard's smile faded. _Or did. I'm still getting used to being a person in the past tense. _

_They tell me it's been two years, and the more I see the more I believe it. It's…unpleasant. It's like a nightmare._

_I really don't want to talk about it. _

Shepard cast about, then sighed. _Since I'm not sending this, I might as well let my thoughts bounce around—maybe I'll find a little insight. I've been wondering how to break the news that I'm alive to you—I doubt you'll take it well, no matter how I do it, but there has to be a way of…well, I'll try to find a gentle way to do it. I know that gentle isn't one of my defining characteristics._

_My first thought was to just turn up in your apartment or wherever you're staying, curled up on the couch or in a chair when you got home. It's a very super-secret, secret squirrel ending…but I think you'd take the intrusion…badly. It might work in the vids, but as we both know life isn't like the vids. _

_Just showing up in the crowd, catching your attention and luring you to a nearly-deserted alley for explanations…appealing, but overly theatrical. Besides, I'm not sure I could shake loose from my guard dog that easily. _

_I can't just call you—or message you for that matter—some things need to be face-to-face and this would be one of them. But, frankly, I don't know what I'd say or how I'd say it. Face-to-face I'd just…I don't know, stare at you and make you think you were going crazy and seeing ghosts. On paper…well, I've tried: I don't get anywhere. _

_And, again, I won't want to send anything that might be intercepted. I know you won't like this line of reasoning, but it's in your interests to remain anonymous. I'd love to have you on my team…but in a way I'm glad you're not. _

_That's something else I would have to explain: you should know I'm stuck on a mission I don't think I can walk away from…and, using that phrase, I'm not sure I _will _walk away from it—in the context of being DOA before the thing is over._

_It's rather sad: they bring me back just so I can die again. I'm not afraid of death…but I'm not in a hurry to go out and meet it, either…_

A though seemed to occur to Shepard, one that left her staring at the recorder as though she'd almost killed someone through sheer stupidity. For a long moment, she sat there, one hand covering her mouth, partly in thought.

…_I'm sorry. In a mission where I can't afford to make mistakes, I go and nearly make a catastrophic one in something that has nothing to do with the mission. It was…almost very clumsy of me, and the maxim about 'almost only counting in horseshoes and hand grenades' isn't helping. _

_And when I say 'catastrophic' I don't mean 'blow up and go boom' or 'getting mobbed by an excessive number of husks'. The mistake would be catastrophic…for you. I still haven't asked how you took my death…and here I am trying to set you up to go through it all over again. I have the distinct impression, though, that it wasn't…well._

_Who _would _take the death of a loved one—a death like that—well?_

_I tell you I'm back, and the next thing either of us knows…I'm gone again._

_Now I know I'm not really going to send this or try to send anything like it. It would be too…cruel. It's better if I stay dead to you…just until I know if I'm going to survive this or not. But if it helps…it's not an easy decision, and it hurts._

_I miss you and…I love you. _

Shepard remorselessly deleted the message, her lips pinched so hard they blanched, her eyes stinging. One hand clenched around the recorder as she wished that Williams and Alenko hadn't managed to thaw her personality.

There was a time when she'd wholeheartedly believed that emotions were messy, that entanglements were just potential trip hazards.

She knew she was in trouble now: the very thought of going back to her 'no emotional ties' way of life was as repellant as joining the Cerberus ranks as a card-carrying member. She couldn't go back, she had to move forward…but along a careful path that would keep Alenko out of her way.

Shepard marched stonily to her desk and shoved the recorder into one of the drawers. It would be cruel to tell him, she reminded herself.

But she couldn't kill the conviction that it was cruel to ask her to be alive…and yet stay dead to the one person who really mattered.


	48. A Rock

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Tali gritted her teeth. "No, I don't have an appointment. My name is Tali'Zorah, I served with Commander Shepard two years ago on the Normandy." How many quarians would or could make such a claim?! "Councilor Anderson made it quite clear that if any of Shepard's crew needed him, he would be available! Call him and ask him if you don't believe me!"

The secretary smiled ingratiatingly at Tali. "You must imagine, miss, how often I hear this sort of thing…"

Tali was ready to throttle the woman: she knew that smile and knew what it meant. She was _just_ a quarian—who knew who she really was under that mask? Besides: quarians had no business on the Citadel—not after everything the geth had done to the wider galaxy!

Before Tali could begin 'listen, you blue, bigoted bitch' a welcome sound came to her ears.

"Tali?"

She whipped around to find Kaidan Alenko, eyebrows furrowed in uncertainty.

"Alenko!" She heaved a sigh and walked over to him. "It's good to see you." Fervent relief outweighed sudden unease. She remembered what a wreck Alenko had been after Shepard died—and not just during the short term aftermath. She, personally, suspected he felt more than just the loss of a well-loved teammate coupled with 'L2 instabilities' (though no one had used that career-killing phrase).

The very soul-shaking devastation seemed to her more as though he'd lost a lover than a comrade.

Shepard's precautions about keeping her return quiet suddenly made more sense.

"You too—what are you doing here?"

"I need to pass on a message to Councilor Anderson…from my Captain." That wasn't a lie—it was simply using a cultural idiom to disguise the truth. Shepard had commanded a ship; that made her a captain by quarian standards.

"I think I get it," Alenko put a guiding arm around her shoulders and walked her to the secretary's desk. "Commander Alenko and Mission Specialist Tali'Zorah to see Councilor Anderson. I'm expected."

The asari flushed purple. "Of course, Commander. I'll let him know you're on your way up."

Tali smiled nastily beneath her helmet and stopped just short of—childishly—sticking her tongue out at the secretary.

"So, can you tell me anything about this?" Alenko asked amiably.

"I'm sorry—it's classified. I would if I could, though."

"Is everything okay?" Alenko frowned.

"Fine, Alenko. No one's going to die over this, but…" she shrugged expressively.

"Gotcha." Alenko knocked twice on Anderson's office door before entering. Apparently he need not wait to be admitted. "Look what I found."

Anderson looked up from a datapad. "This is an unexpected surprise."

"I'm here to deliver a message from my Captain—it's important and…" she cast an apologetic look at Alenko, even though he couldn't see it. "Classified. My orders are to pass it along to you, Councilor."

Alenko nodded. "I'll wait in the hall."

Tali watched him go, then turned her attention to Anderson. "I'm sorry to drop in so unexpectedly."

"What's the message?" Anderson asked, waving away any need to apologize for her impromptu visit. "Or maybe I should ask from whom?"

"It's not from the Fleet, Councilor…and to be honest, I'm not exactly sure how to explain it." This was the awkward part. It really was.

"Hit me." Anderson stood up, leaning against his desk as though to show that he could take any news as long as he could stand up to meet it.

"I saw Shepard less than a week ago at Freedom's Progress—one of your colonies that went dark." Anderson's complexion turned ashen, his body tensed visibly, but he remained silent. "She says that she needs help. That the Alliance needs to extract her immediately…Cerberus has her…and whatever they want her to do, she can't just leave unless she knows there's backing."

"You _saw_ Shepard?" Anderson repeated slowly.

"Yes. She had details of our last meeting, Councilor: I'm convinced it's her. Or something that honestly thinks it's her."

"With Cerberus?"

"She didn't seem too happy about it, but they're investigating the missing colonies." This was surmise, but her guts gave it credence. "You know her history…that's not something she could walk away from…"

"I know," Anderson nodded. "And you're sure she wants out?"

Tali bristled before snapping out: "Shepard hates Cerberus as much as anyone else! She's watched and probably guarded. She's not even sure where she's been kept. I _saw_ it on her face: she's caught between a stone and a hard spot!"

Anderson nodded again, his expression grim. "I believe what you're telling me, Tali—and I want to believe you've got the whole truth."

She understood the reservations in the statement and appreciated the delicacy with which he implied that she may only have seen what a sneaky organization like Cerberus wanted her to see.

"Alenko just got back from Freedom's Progress," Anderson said quietly. "Sounds like we just missed her."

Tali winced at the perversity of poor timing. "She didn't want more of her crew to know than could be helped. She seemed to think she was in a bad spot that—if the Alliance didn't step in—she might not come back from."

Anderson heaved a sigh. "Can I get you to write me an after-action report? As a favor, so I can—"

"Of course. If I can find a quiet place to do it, I'll write it out right now."

"I'll make one available. I appreciate it."

"I want her to be back, Councilor. And I want her to be…safe."

Anderson's face took on lines of weariness, indicating that this second part might be difficult. "So do I—trust me, I'm going to act in her best interests."

"She would have trusted that, so I do, too." Tali took another deep breath.

"Tali—did she say what happened to her? How she survived?"

"I don't think she _did_ survive. Cerberus has…she said…Councilor, I think they've done something awful, and that she's not back by choice in any sense of the word."


	49. A Hard Place

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Councilor Anderson listened to Alenko's report, but it was Tali's message that rang in his ears. It was like the noise after a flashbang, that high pitched constant ring—only in this case it was a litany of words.

Shepard was back—effectively back from the dead.

Shepard was back—entangled so badly by enemy scrutiny and her own moral compass that it would take an Alliance rescue team and Alliance backing when she returned to get her out.

Shepard was back—and willing to work with Cerberus. Some might say this suggested that she had been compromised, but Shepard was an N7. They didn't turn very often, even if there were precedents for shady, gray-area dealings. Still…Cerberus?

"It looked like someone got there before we did: there were a lot of mangled mechs. The investigation team says quarians—there was blood to back that—and possibly some kind of strike team." Alenko frowned. "They thought that there might have been some…very well-trained individuals on that team. The reconstruction looked exactly like one of our enter-and-clear operations. Start to finish."

Anderson knew Alenko was waiting, just in case he wanted to say that Tali had been one of the quarians. But explaining that to Alenko meant trying to explain Tali's story about Shepard…or something that thought it was Shepard.

This made things very complicated indeed. "Keep going."

The major complication was that it had come to the Alliance's attention that Cerberus had infiltrated the ranks—this had probably been done on a low level already, but the indications were someone with strong Alliance ties. An officer, maybe.

…and now this.

He didn't want to believe that Shepard and this mole were the same person. It didn't seem likely and yet…he may have to cut a deal with Barla Von, see if a message couldn't be gotten through to this hypothetical Shepard.

"End report, sir."

Anderson nodded. "I'll expect a written one within the next few days—just to keep the details fresh." It was about the same thing he'd told Tali.

"It's already in your inbox, sir."

Of course it was—Alenko was about as accurate as a slide rule when it came to his job. Every T crossed, every I dotted, every document turned in prior to a verbal briefing whenever possible. "All right. Personal observations?"

Alenko was silent for a moment. "I don't see why the Alliance isn't showing a little more interest—but maybe now that there's some kind of security footage they'll have a little more to go on." Anderson realized he'd missed a salient point of Alenko's report—he didn't remember hearing about security footage. "My recommendation is that we keep our ears open and try to react in a timely manner when the next colony goes dark. It's worse than slavers making raids, sir: with slavers there are always survivors."

A cold feeling settled in Anderson's stomach, one not brought on by a mental image of what could be worse than another Mindoir…though it had some connection to that event in a roundabout way.

"I also want to know who the strike team was, and who they belonged to. Tali might be able to make inquiries about who the quarians were and why they were there…if we ask her nicely and if it wasn't classified."

Anderson smiled at this: who'd have thought a day would come when Tali—whom he remember as 'a bit of a kid'—would politely but firmly declare something classified? "And you're sure of what you saw in the footage?"

"I'm not sure of anything, except that I ran the footage myself and the only similar species that cropped up was labeled 'Collector'. That's not very encouraging, since no one knows where they hole up. We just know how they get there." Alenko crossed his arms.

Practice over the past two years kept Anderson from visibly reacting to the invocation of Collectors.

"I take it you forwarded me a copy of the footage as well?"

"Yes sir. Heavy encryption—I wouldn't want this stuff getting out. I also wiped the stuff found on Freedom's Progress."

Anderson nodded, feeling like a bobble-head by this point. The subtle grooming of Alenko for Spectre candidacy had progressed _very_ well. It would be some time yet before Alenko heard a word about the plans Hackett and Anderson were jointly hatching, but those plans were _definitely_ progressing.

If Shepard had been proud of all the soldiers she'd influenced over the years, pushed to excel—and some of them into the N-program—how would she feel knowing one of her crewmen was being set up to succeed her?

"Good foresight," Anderson approved. "Did you send copies to Admiral Hackett?"

"No, sir. I was given to understand that I reported directly to you."

"I'll make sure Hackett stays in the loop."

"Nothing more to add, sir." Alenko announced, apparently sensing the conversation had wound down.

"All right, Alenko. It's a lot to chew on, isn't it?"

Alenko nodded slowly. "Not sure I buy into it, and I was there. Collectors? Why now? And kidnapping colonies—assuming they're responsible for all of them—isn't their usual MO. It's high profile."

His tone implied that it _should_ be high profile—high profile enough for the Alliance to be all over it, sorting it out, preventing further attacks, and tracking down the Collectors. Or, at least, trying to. The inaction clearly chafed Alenko.

Was that what Cerberus wanted Shepard for? No one would pursue colony-marauding aliens with more dedication—and Shepard wouldn't turn her back on that sort of chase, even if it meant working with people she found unsavory. It would make sense: it explained why she hadn't made a break for it with Tali and her band. If Shepard couldn't count on support from the Alliance equal or close to whatever Cerberus was providing…she'd stay put, swallow her own opinions and sentiments for the greater good.

He didn't like the scenario coalescing as accounts began to trickle in.


	50. Hooked

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Omega was one nasty place.

That was one of the understatements of the century, right behind 'we're in a bit of a bind', and Krul's 'that'll put hair on your ass'.

Fortunately, turians didn't _have_ hair…though Garrus strongly suspected, after the one time Krul went into the kitchen with culinary intent, the humans were checking every few hours to make sure they didn't turn into…what was it? The Wolfman.

He personally suspected it was Krul's way of telling people not to bother him with that crap and let him alone.

Not the nicest, most personable guy, but he knew his demolitions.

Of course, he was of the school of 'if they touch the thing, or tamper with it, I blow their asses to dust'. He had not approved of the 'no civilian casualties' approach, but Krul was a batarian, and he did represent something of the usual stereotypes about batarians.

If he had not run into Krul early on, he would have never taken one of Tarak's throwbacks in. Whatever the circumstances, Krul was dropped almost in his lap. He never asked why Krul had such a burning desire to kill Tarak and every Blue Sun he could get his bombs near, but it worked.

Questions about why his men had opted to join up with him tended not to come up. It was enough that they were there.

Garrus heaved a crate of the latest payload off the truck, following the massive shape of Krul, stalking along ahead with two crates, one under either arm.

"The guy's a complete _tank_. And I thought _I _worked out," Butler hissed to Garrus.

"How's Nalah?" Butler was one of the few with family. Nalah—a very pregnant Nalah—had been smuggled to a safehouse months ago. The team did not take chances where family was concerned.

Butler had not seen his wife face-to-face for several weeks—security reasons—but he smiled. "She's good…my son is good."

From what Garrus understood, 'son' was wishful thinking. "Good."

"Garrus?" Sidonis came trotting up, his face twitching nervously.

Sidonis was always nervous, but as far as scouts and observers went, he was good. Barefaced, but good. Being barefaced didn't mean much on Omega, and Garrus was glad to have help where he could get it.

"What?" Garrus did not stop walking. The crate was _heavy_.

"I need to talk to you for a minute…it's important."

Garrus nodded, deposited the crate in the parking garage and followed Sidonis to a quiet corner. "What is it?" Crossing his arms, he studied the shorter turian.

"I've got a lead on something…could be big."

"Big how?" Garrus ran his tongue thoughtfully along the inside of his teeth. "Big where?"

"Look, you asked me to keep an ear to the ground, that's what I did. You know we're screwing up business for…well, everybody?" Garrus nodded. "Well, someone might be screwing up business for Aria…and we don't want her thinking it's us. You know how _she_ is."

Again, Garrus nodded. He was not afraid of Aria T'Loak. She was too good a businesswoman to pick a fight with someone who stayed off her intel nets. Besides, he was good for business, kept the major merc players from causing trouble by thinning their numbers. Seizing their resources meant she had that much more capital at her disposal.

_The best way to negotiate is to show someone how getting what you want gets them what they want. _The comment had not been directed at him, but it worked.

So did Williams' opinion: _You can get more with a kind word and a gun than you can with a kind word alone_. Not that he did much face-to-face dealing.

"Rumors say there's a deal going down, on the other side of town. That big thug of hers, Moklan? She's gone over. She's supposed to meet with Tarak. One on one, guards stay outside. I've scoped the place: if this happens…you missed him once. You're not the type to miss twice."

Garrus looked away from Sidonis, drumming his talons on his arm as he took in and let out a deep breath. "When?"

"Twenty-one hundred."

"I'll have the crew ready at…"

"No," Sidonis interrupted. "I scoped it: it's a big, open space, except near the ceiling: there's a network of catwalks. One or two might be able to sneak around up there, but too much noise and everything goes to hell. It's getting in that's tricky, too: they know you're out here somewhere."

Garrus nodded, still thinking. "You're sure about all this?"

"Absolutely. When was the last time I brought you a bad lead?" This time, Sidonis sounded offended.

It was true: Sidonis' leads were always good. "Okay. We'll head out as soon as it's dark, be in position before the deal goes down. With any luck there'll be one less smart gang leader on this rock…"

"Then the Suns fall to on each other, trying to fill the power gap. They'll topple like domin-whoas."

"Dominos, Lantar, _dominos_."

"Whatever. Humanisms don't make sense anyway." Sidonis rolled his eyes, shaking his head.

"Humanisms make _perfect_ sense," Garrus responded, then grinned wickedly, "to _humans_, anyway. Come on," he clapped Sidonis on the shoulder, "let's get the rest of this stuff unloaded, then we'll talk tactics." Garrus returned to the task at hand, his mind turning over and over. Tarak got away once. That was luck.

But the merc was only batarian: he couldn't be lucky _all_ the time.

It would only take Garrus being lucky _once_. He might have wondered what to do if he managed to kill Tarak: but there were two other major merc gangs…and Tarak's lieutenant, Jenthra. All the second-in-commands would have to go, just to make sure no formal leadership remained. Fortunately, since the infighting that would follow was inevitable, there was time to plan.

Garrus smiled to himself, but did not let optimism get in the way of good judgment. Don't count your chickens before they hatch. And _that_ humanism made _perfect _sense.


	51. Viper

Author's Note: I have not forgotten poor Garrus. However, I am experimenting with format and you are all my guinea pigs. ^_^ What we're going to do for the next few chapters is run through a gamut of perspectives and events that occur over a relatively short span of time (since I was never too clear on how long Garrus was on his own, sniping off the bag guys) rather than run through one plot segment, go back and run through someone else's, rinse, wash, and repeat.

As the next few chapters unfold, those of you who are willing might let me know how this fragmented perspective, relatively-close timeframe setup works for you, or if it's just *too* broken-up. I'd appreciate the feedback.

Anyway, pressing on…

-J-

Commander Eva Rogers stood at attention with such attention to precision that she could have modeled for an Alliance handbook of comportment. "Our new orders, intercepted by Ms. Sato, are as vague as ever. We're to be chasing around the Terminus Systems on observational missions, and information we gather is to be distributed to various Alliance personnel who will handle the follow up or clean up as necessary."

That was what she _told_ Capt. Art Cameron. He would be, if it were not for the Corsair program, considered ROAD. However, such a description did not work in the arguably 'civilian' world.

The man's obliviousness was truly astounding. What he did not know would fill several terabytes of information at the very least. The salient points included the fact that he was 'captain' in name only—she was the one running the show, and as long as nothing bothered him and as long as he perks of being captain were maintained he was happy to let his capable XO do her job and work on that ridiculous manuscript he called his memoirs.

Let him take credit for her doings: it might come in handy sometime. Let someone bring some kind of charge against her and she could effectively say, 'didn't Capt. Cameron say that was _his_ directive?'.

The next point was that, although the Alliance might have eyes on the _Queen Victoria_, she, Rogers, had neatly—though with some trouble—extricated herself from all but the most tenuous threads of restraint. Effectively she was running her own operation on her own terms, free to pursue her own interests.

And her interests were too widespread to permit her to pay doglike loyalty to any one entity for very long. It was a risky thing, and if any of several individuals realized that she really was playing ends against the middle…well, that was why she did it. They couldn't _all_ turn on her at once and if they did she'd vanish while they scuffled over the privilege of drawing and quartering her.

Her real Alliance orders were interdictory actions against the usual scum of the galaxy. Sato had adjusted them judiciously before bringing them to Rogers, who would then present them to the captain. It was the sort of mission that she liked best: delicate, requiring a subtle and conniving mind.

The real orders came from The Agency—she never permitted herself to use the proper name, lest it somehow slip in an unforeseeable moment of inattention.

Pavo—or so he called himself—had elicited information like that on several occasions. Harmless details, but details nonetheless. That had been very early on, and much amused him.

If only he knew how loose _his_ lips were, which was astounding for someone in his position…and for someone who didn't have 'lips' to begin with.

"…and our first objective?"

She missed most of Cameron's remark, but the pertinent part came through her preoccupation. She'd been with Cameron long enough to be able to tune in and out without missing important information. "We've got a facility that shouldn't exist. Our orders are to perform reconnaissance then forward our findings to…" she cued her omnitool, "…our contact is Commander Sheffler." For very good reason, although Cameron didn't know why. Rogers repressed a grim smile only because of long years of doing just that. The orders had come through several days ago—though she suspected that the facility had been waiting idly for someone to trip over it for longer than that.

The Agency bringing Shepard back did not surprise her. They were good at getting results.

She thought she saw what the Upper Echelon was up to. There was no other reason she could see that necessitated that particular facility falling into the hands of Agency-hunter number one. Of course, that was just the beginning. She was, effectively, playing the part of the ventriloquist: people would hear her but they would see Shepard, and only Shepard.

And it appealed to her to have that broken paragon chasing a woman who didn't have the sense to see her own potential.

"Sheffler? Commander Sheffler? You know him, don't you?" Cameron asked, his eyes brightening with interest.

"We've met several times, Captain. He's a very capable soldier." And once Sheffler found whatever the scrub team (or evidence-planting team) had left at the Facility, he would be hot on Shepard's trail. He would scream until he was blue that if Shepard was with the Agency it was an allegiance change. He was zealot enough to simply shoot her on the spot.

Rogers would be disappointed if he managed to do that, but she didn't think he could pull it off.

It also helped that she had another card to play that few people knew about: she'd used Sheffler to some effect on defectors. It was astounding how easy hatred was to manipulate. If only her asset knew the Agency—whom he hated so much—was using him.

"If I may, there is one other thing." If one buttered Cameron's dignity and sense of self-importance one could get away with murder.

"Yes, Commander?"

"Lt. Carson's wife is getting ready to have a baby—their first. Now, he hasn't approached me, but I know that he would like very much to see her, and I know that you intended to give the crew a bit of liberty. I was hoping we might be able to use one to make the other happen. Carson's _very_ conscientious and I would hate to lose him…but he's very distracted, given that this is his first. I was thinking that we might swing back around to get him a couple weeks after the happy event?"

"Carson is a good man—saved my life, once…"

Rogers turned out the babble: she wanted Carson gone, as he represented the last of Cameron's original picks, the last person she had not brought on board.

With Carson gone the crew was hers to a man.

One never knew when that might be useful.


	52. Blueberries

Miranda Lawson kept bruising hours and moved mountains behind the scenes of Shepard's enterprise. She was not out there, like Shepard, to win popularity awards. _Shepard_ needed to be popular, needed the crew to trust her. She, Miranda, played a vital role in reminding people who they would be working for if not for Shepard.

It helped them appreciate Shepard's soft-but-firm management style.

But even she, Miranda Lawson, was still human. She did not like to get into the philosophical debate over that. She was a very, very, _very_ good human. Smarter, faster, stronger…

…and very, very _hungry_ this morning. Her stomach kept rumbling in a way that would shock anyone who heard it…except perhaps Jacob.

Glancing at her wall clock, she shook her head. Gardner would not have breakfast ready for another twenty minutes. No point in heading out to see whatever he had concocted if it was not ready. It wasn't seemly to circle around the galley like a hungry shark. She would just have to fill in the time doing something easy, something that would not suffer if she got distracted. She was a perfectionist, but she was still human.

Not that she would ever let on.

Personnel reports—she usually read them twice, anyway.

Miranda did not know how Chambers did it, but apparently Shepard had relegated her to a category of nonthreatening, and treated Chambers as an overeager, green recruit who really had no business on a spaceship but had signed enlistment papers.

Chambers' latest report indicated Shepard was acclimating, or seeming to acclimate, well. The Commander was not sleeping soundly, but that was to be expected. Apparently Shepard prevailed upon EDI to close off the viewing window above her bed. EDI had recorded what seemed like a mild panic attack prior to the orders about the viewing panel.

That viewing panel was a mistake, come to think of it. A window in spaceship living quarters was a luxury. It was also a potentially bad idea for someone who suffocated out among the stars. Shepard might have less trouble coping with a small window than the massive view afforded by the observation deck, but if she was not prepared for the viewport to be there…

…decidedly a design flaw in the ship.

But the Commander was in good shape, and taking well to the crew. Faster than expected, though Miranda suspected she knew why: Shepard needed the crew to trust her and knew it. She would, therefore, have to trust them first. By now, Shepard probably understood that most of these crewmen were not hardline Cerberus operatives but scavenged finds from the Alliance, with a few treasures like Moreau, Chakwas and Donnelly.

Also, most of the crew would not have a problem with aliens, or would have less a problem with aliens if Shepard endorsed their presence. Everyone knew Shepard traditionally worked with nonhuman crewmates (even though this was a recent development, when considering her entire career). Everyone knew, sooner or later, there would be non-humans on board.

Ten minutes to breakfast.

Miranda closed out her terminal, changing out of her comfortable pajamas and into her work clothes. Being a biotic meant having the appetite and metabolism of a pyjak. She could not quite eat her own weight, but some days it felt like it.

Gardner was humming—she assumed that was what all the nasal noise he made was—as he turned pancakes with efficient ease. "Morning, ma'am!" he did not snap to, but within seconds he held out a plate stacked high, which was just as good to her as a salute.

"Gardner."

Gardner did not let anything shake him up, except maybe burnt food or puked-up food. True, the provisions on this ship were not exquisite, but they were far from cold rations in a can. And the eggs here never saw the powdered stage, so there was no fear of goobers.

She noticed Shepard checking for them, the day before yesterday, just before the Commander dumped an obscene amount of Tabasco sauce on the eggs. Something about the hot sauce, once she had the eggs loaded with it, had made Shepard check, as if something pained her. She'd eaten them dutifully, but her expression indicated (to a distressed Gardner) that she might as well have been eating shredded cardboard.

Miranda grabbed a small jar of syrup before returning to her quarters—being second-in-command had its perks. Knowing she would only have to put them on again, she pulled off her boots, letting her sock feet revel in springy rug.

She set her pancakes on her desk, sitting down before drenching them in thick syrup. She cut into the pancakes with her fork, watching the utensil dig into the thick, fluffy, layers of her mountain of breakfast. Some people could not bear so much sugar in the mornings.

Miranda could not live without it. If anyone knew about her private stash of sugary cereal…

…Shepard could get away with kiddie drinks. She, Miranda Lawson, could not get away with Galaxy Crunch (with marshmallows, she was very specific on that point). Yet another instance of life being unfair.

She had to smile at the sentiment as she crammed a big bite of pancake into her mouth. One reason she took breakfast in private was so no one would see her shoveling food away like a marine.

Mmm…_blueberry_ pancakes. _Did_ a hot breakfast get better than that?

It _could_, she decided as she disappeared to the bathroom attached to her quarters to refresh what little makeup she used. Perfect skin and extraordinary looks did not need much cosmetic help, whatever the galaxy might speculate about the time and effort she put into her face every morning.

However, the one thing that could be improved would be skin that refused to get blueberry purple all over it. Right now, her lips bore the unmistakable stains of fruit juice not quickly enough removed.

Blast the blueberries. It was going to be a 'lots of lipstick' day.


	53. Morning

Shepard groaned as she rolled out of bed. She did not understand why, but she still woke up _every_ morning with her face burning and her muscles stiff as overstretched bungee cords. Being a biosynthetic fusion would have _complications_, they said. The eggheads didn't know the half of it...and didn't appreciate the half they _did _know_. _How could they?

Few people knew about the complications of being resuscitated—she hated the word 'resurrected'. It made her feel like a circus freak…

However, for an experiment on the cutting, bleeding edge of technology and medicine, she was still an experiment and work in progress.

The organic parts of her body still resented the overabundance of synthetic components; the scientists countered with the biosynthetic gel, currently degrading into her bloodstream.

There was not enough of her own blood in her ruined veins—and the less rejection the higher the chances of success—so they used syntheblood. Syntheblood was never meant for such extensive use; so they cooked up a synthetic version of her real blood, blood somehow adjusted to match her genetic makeup.

It meant she could not donate blood for _any_ reason. Receive it, yes, but not donate.

Cloning her a new skin was too slow, so they designed biodegradable mesh, which covered her body like papier-mâché. The gauzelike weave degraded as new skin grew, like roses climbing a trellis, but not all the edges of all the patches had healed—this was what caused the distinctive scarring on her face.

Her joints no longer popped and crackled, though her back still did. Ball-and-socket joints rotated smoothly, even if the muscles protested in the mornings. Her left shoulder was still hers, her right shoulder and most of her ribs on that side were either metal cybernetics, or high-grade medical plastic.

Her eyes were 'real', but burned at the end of the day, the synthetic join between eye and optic nerve as the organ 'got tired'.

She washed her face meticulously, wincing at the astringent, before anointing the scars with numbing agent. She scorned using the 'happy sludge' until the pain got bad enough to keep her from sleeping. It hadn't, so far, but the pot of painkiller-patch sat on her bedside table, near her alarm clock, beside a bottle of muscle relaxants.

Those were Dr. Chakwas' suggestion and minimum effective dose. Shepard's muscles tended to get tight and cranky after a long day, as well as after long sleep. She hadn't dared to find out what would happen if she didn't stretch cranky muscles before going to bed.

Still, things were improving. Breaking in the new body was like breaking in new boots.

Moving back to her bedroom, Shepard cued her music, beginning her twice-daily calisthenics. They kept the aches from coming back midway through the day and put her in a reasonable frame of mind. Not easy to do on a Cer—

She forced herself to snip the thought like an unruly leaf in a flower arrangement—not that she knew anything about flowers.

She couldn't lead these people if she kept that mentality. Her tentative sounding-out hinted that she had Cerberus fringe members—not the crazy ones she usually dealt with, but decent people, many of whom had some connection with the 'Shepard Is Telling the Truth, Why Won't You Listen?!' movement.

She could see the risk inherent in sending a crew that might become more loyal to her than to Cerberus, if she showed the leadership skills people expected. _That_ was where Miranda came in, Shepard thought, bending at the waist, letting the muscles around her spine pull.

Miranda was as Cerberus-loyal as Shepard had been Alliance-loyal.

She did not contest the 'had been' of that thought. After hearing what kind of crap the Alliance had pulled, she was not sure she could trust _them _either. It seemed to her there were fewer and fewer people in the galaxy that she could rely on.

Oh, she understood the reasons well enough…but still, it was a real slap to the face.

She never expected help from the Council, especially after letting the last one die like that…

She cut that thought too. She did what she had to do. Tactically speaking, her logic was unassailable. She seemed to do that often: make tactical assessments based on logic but which were not politically or interpersonally sound.

She straightened, her expression contorting. She was not sure what to hope for, in that respect, that the galaxy would survive the impending war, or that the Reapers would steamroll everything and people's last brilliant conclusion would be _we should have paid attention to Chicken Little_.

It was a modern-day Cassandra complex. She could tell the truth until she was blue in the face and no one (who could do anything about it) would listen.

Her spine crackled, the aches and stiffness receding as the muscles warmed up.

They'd catch on, eventually.

But between then and now there was _breakfast_, and whatever complaining might go on, Gardner's cooking was _heaven_ compared to the prepackaged, powdered, or otherwise processed rations on the original _Normandy_. Civilian pukes…

But the thought brought a smile to her face, knowing how many former Alliance personnel were on this ship.

Even now, she could not call it a boondoggle. That was promising.

She finished her warm-ups before hitting the minifridge, to sip on a cold Astro-Fizz while her pre-breakfast checking of messages. Note from Chakwas: _drink fewer sodas. _

Note from Chambers: _If you ever need to talk…_

Note from the Illusive Man…something about a shotgun.

A big one.

Shepard stopped checking her messages. Still trying to buy her off? The Illusive Man made her skin crawl; he had her by the hair and he knew it, all along pretending he didn't, that he was just misunderstood.

Misunderstood. Right. She downed the rest of her drink, crumpled the bottle and tossed it into the trash basket. She'd finish breakfast long before she went to ask Jacob about this bigger, better shotgun.


	54. Suckered

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Garrus frowned at the old foundry from the vehicle's passenger seat. "You sure this is the place?"

"I _said_ I scoped it," Sidonis growled back, his mandibles waving. "You'd think I was the type to make mistakes. You're worrying like someone's grandma."

"This is Tarak, Sidonis," Garrus rumbled as the foundry slid past them, once Sidonis continued driving, "underestimating him is like poking a thresher maw in the eye."

Sidonis shuddered.

"Drop me off around the corner, I'll slip in topside. You said there was an out on the ground floor?"

"Yeah, I'll come in that way—if you're up in the catwalks, you'll see it, no problem."

"Good." Garrus glanced out the window again, catching his reflection in the glass. "With any luck, we'll be back in time for breakfast."

Sidonis nodded before pulling over to the curb. Garrus adjusted his long jacket before climbing out of the car. "Stash the car out of sight, then go in on foot. It'll give me time to get into position."

"Good luck, Garrus."

"You too."

Sidonis smiled. "I'll need it."

"I'll have you covered." Garrus thumped a hand on the car's roof and took off at an inconspicuous pace. The air hung filthy and polluted in this section of town—more so than in others—making him feel as though he needed a breathing apparatus.

Within the shadow of the wall of the foundry, Garrus slipped out of his coat and pulled on his helmet. The environmental seals hissed, and cleaner air filtered in. The armor had seen enough wear and tear that the filters were starting to give out. He would have to fix that soon.

Garrus took a deep breath, and from the shadows scouted his way to the upper levels of the foundry. He did not want to go inside until he had to, just in case anyone was present, as Sidonis had been earlier, to scope out the location. You could never be too careful, especially on Omega.

He did not know Moklan except by name and reputation, though the fact that she was meeting up with Tarak was…interesting. Aria couldn't know about that…

He was not sure if there was a way to work that angle, but he would have to keep an open mind.

It took a lot of work to get into the foundry, partly because he had to climb half of the way—it would be easier getting in this way than getting out, hence the need for the ground floor exit. Some people might be good about scrambling up vertical planes, but he was not one of them. It was not the first time he had wished for a biotic on the team.

Alenko could have just picked him up and pushed him through the window. The Lieutenant would shy away from doing so—he was always nervous with live loads—but he could do it.

The foundry was dark and cold on the inside, smelling thickly of dust and decay. Garrus hurriedly found a spot that did not allow the lights coming through the windows in the ceiling to cast his shadow on the ground. He needed a dark corner. It would help if he knew where Sidonis' out was, but it would take time for the other turian to stash the car and come back.

Garrus glanced at the clock on his HUD, then took a deep breath. There was plenty of time. Sniper work was not something one could rush. Waiting was part of the game, and he had played the game often enough…

…even if he still blew his timing every so often. He would have liked to think—and did think—he had learned a couple things about patience in the past two years, especially after coming to Omega.

Silence and cold air settled as Garrus found a good position—or as good a position as he could, without knowing where the exit was. He could go back the way he came, fortunately, and probably with good success. That route, though, would make him a shadow against a backlight; not a good place to be, and if he could avoid it he would.

He glanced at the clock again. Sidonis had had time to stash the car; he should be back soon.

Garrus half-closed his eyes. This was it: _he_ only had to be lucky once, and Tarak could not be lucky all the time. Eyes still half-closed, Garrus un-collapsed his rifle, checking the range and settings more out of habit than anything else.

"Sidonis? You about ready?" Garrus asked into his radio, his voice barely more than a rumble in his chest. The large room would make sounds echo—good once Tarak and the others arrived.

There was no answer. Well, that probably meant Sidonis was getting into position. Garrus tapped his talons on his rifle, peering through the scope for any sign of motion.

Three minutes went by, and Garrus felt a tingle of nerves.

Five minutes. Something wasn't right.

"Sidonis? Check in," Garrus snapped irritably.

No answer. This was ridiculous. Sidonis was not a good soldier, but he never forgot to turn on his radio. No one did, the radio was your lifeline, it kept you from being shot by your own party! He shifted to thermal scan, but the building was cold.

Garrus got up, his heart pounding. Something was wrong…something was very wrong…

He'd call the mission off. It was a wrench, but when guts said something was wrong, it was wise to listen.

The ground beneath him rocked as a hidden charge exploded. The foundry shook, and fire raced outward from the charge. He took a deep breath, eyes widening as the truth sank in…or what he was afraid was the truth. With all the speed a turian could muster, he raced for the way he came in, bursts of fire and explosions going off in a grotesque parody of falling dominoes.

He would just have to improvise getting down again…


	55. Toys

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Shepard's boots padded softly on the floor. The semi-familiar interior of the _Normandy_—she couldn't bear to call it the 'SR-2'; it made her feel like a ghost—left her in a state of dreamlike déjà vu. Chambers had assured her—though Shepard had not asked—the sense of disconnect was normal (often seen in coma patients), and should lessen over time.

It felt pretty bad, though. Twice, so far, she had made to hail Pressly, before remembering he was dead. Two years' worth of dead.

But she had Joker, and she had Dr. Chakwas. It was something. Yes, it meant going into battle with nothing but Cerberus-vetted operatives…but if her suspicions about Miranda—why couldn't she refer to these people by surname only?—were correct, the biotic would win Personality of the Decade before she willingly contributed to _anything_ that might ruin two years of hard work.

Shepard suspected the two years meant more than the four billion credits. It certainly was the other way around with the Illusive Man, though, and he would certainly take those four billion credits (plus the new _Normandy_, plus interest on both) out of her hide, sooner rather than later.

She couldn't argue that: at least she'd be doing something constructive.

Jacob took a long pull of his coffee in its oversized mug, noting that Shepard was only playing with hers as she took in the changes to her ship.

It was early, way too early…or maybe it was a couple late nights catching up with him.

"This is my office," he palmed them into the armory. Jacob was not a morning person and he knew it, but he made an effort. "If you can shoot it, we've probably got something like it." And they did, he helped _assure _that they did. "Good thing you had breakfast first; most of this gear is stuff to take your time over."

Shepard was still running on a truncated sleep schedule, though she looked fresh as a daisy, every inch the commanding officer despite the casual black-and-white imitation Alliance uniform. "Well, you've got a big toybox..." she noted, looking around the armory appreciatively. "I'm supposed to see you about a shotgun."

Jacob, with a wide smile, strode off to the back of the armory.

Shepard came around the table to watch, her eyes taking in the ordered regularity of the room.

"Here we go, less with love and more with hopes you'll field test it to some incredible extreme." He set the metal case on an unused portion of the worktop, then unlocked and turned it so she could open the case.

Shepard did so, and her face contorted. "Holy crap, what the hell is that?!" She pulled the shotgun out of the padded case. It was the meanest, ugliest, nastiest-looking piece of hardware she ever saw that did _not_ involve four wheels and a steering column.

"It's the Eviscerator, not a nice weapon to be on the business end of—or so the eggheads hope." He did not mention the finishing touches being put on another shotgun that might appeal to her sense of humor: one using modified geth-tech. He certainly appreciated the irony, even if there were no geth to shoot with it.

Despite it being rather heavy, Shepard found herself falling in love with the shotgun, enough so that she managed to forget quite a few of her other concerns for a moment.

She'd had an Astro-Fizz earlier, she would be fine for a couple of low-stress hours…

"Holy crap, let's go shoot something with it and I'll let them know how it goes…" Wow, she hadn't said anything like that since she originally joined the N-program.

It had been awhile since she saw any weapon that surprised her, and this one did. Maybe there was something to a two year dirt nap.

"And here we thought you'd be all omnitool and tech." It was good to see some genuine interest in the hardware they would be using on this mission. Especially since there was so much, and he was responsible for it all.

"Wow…" she did not put the shotgun down as she strode off, examining the weapons on the walls. "They've upgraded again…"

Jacob did not know if that was simple nostalgia or something darker creeping into her tone, so he interrupted it before it could fully set in. "This is new since you got put on the slab," Taylor jerked his head. It was blunt, but Shepard was a soldier; tiptoeing around her death when it came up wouldn't do her any favors.

Besides, even though this new item was not strictly a weapon, he was responsible for it.

Shepard caught the implement one-handed. It clipped, or was supposed to clip, onto her gear. She held it up, wordlessly requesting an explanation.

Jacob raised his hands, catching the artifact when Shepard tossed it back. Holding it up in an overly-dramatic demonstrative fashion, he toggled it on.

"_Holy crap_!" Shepard gaped. "This was geth-only last time I saw it," she walked up to the distortion in the air that was Jacob Taylor. He reappeared so abruptly she flinched.

"Tactical cloak, tech-heads and quasi tech-heads only. We're still working on the duration, but it _does_ work." For a long moment he waited for her to ask something along the lines of 'how did this get from the geth onto this ship?', but she did not.

"What is the duration, and can I do anything with or to it via my omnitool?"

Good question, but not what he expected after her wish to find things to shoot with her new Eviscerator shotgun. "Uh…Commander…?"

"Nerd glasses are showing, I know," Shepard answered absently. "I keep forgetting I've had all my techs swapped out for biotics…well…sort of." She caught Jacob's arched eyebrows, then adopted a rather dumb look and shook the device near her ear, as though to see if it rattled. "There, that more marine-like?"

New toys started a day on the right foot.


	56. Lucky

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

"All right," Sheffler announced to his team as the shuttle moved closer to the mysterious facility. Well, not _so_ mysterious: space was a big place and people were always leaving junk all over it. "We've got a facility with no lifesigns just hanging around. Chances are high that there's nothing running, but we're to ascertain who was there, why, and what happened."

"You think this could be like those colonies?" Clary asked, deep frown lines etching his heavy features.

"Could be—but it's not like any residential station I ever saw," Sheffler answered. "Still, things have been known to surprise me." He shrugged at this, to the amusement of his crew.

He hated this sort of mission: any time he saw a deserted station his stomach squelched into a tight knot, a knot filled with ice water. They usually turned out to be someone's science project gone wrong, and usually the project wasn't finished.

The Kodiak settled in the first identified shuttle bay. "All right, Grieves, take Charli and Mason." Charli was the only one who went by her first name, simply because no one could pronounce her surname properly. Even Sheffler, who had stared at it for almost an hour when she first joined the team, _still_ wasn't sure how to say it.

One could _not_ string that many consonants together to form a word! And when _she_ said it (giggling at the difficulties of others) the sounds ran together like cheap paint.

"Everyone else with me. We'll split at the first junction we come to." He pulled his helmet on, waited for everyone else to seal theirs, then led the way out of the shuttle, rifle ready. "We've got blood," he announced at the first junction. It was clear someone shot someone else, but there was no body.

The blood was old, though, dry and flaky.

"Someone's been through here and mopped up," Clary suggested.

"Yeah." Sheffler took a steadying breath. One missing body didn't constitute a scrub team's presence…but he assumed there was one until he had evidence to the contrary. "Clary—get in the system and see if you can't find us anything helpful."

Clary nodded, then shook his head a moment later. "Need to find a physical access point, sir. This system's pretty fragged."

"All right. Keep in radio contact." Sheffler and his team took off one way, Grieves' team heading the other.

Within minutes Sheffler knew all he felt he needed to know: Cerberus had stamped their logo everywhere. There was no doubt as to whose station this was.

The absence of bodies made sense, though why Cerberus hadn't repurposed the station was puzzling. It was a pretty big one, after all.

"Near as I can make out from our original scans and the bullet holes in the walls," Clary said, "this place suffered either a massive, cascading system failure…or a traitor."

"Or both," Sheffler muttered.

"Any idea what they were doing?" Kestrel asked.

"I'm not sure…some kind of medical research. If we find the primary medlab I might get a better idea. According to the schematics," Clary paused to bring up an image of the floor they were on, "it's here."

Sheffler nodded, his mind wondering what sort of sick experiment Cerberus was up to this time. For people supposedly protecting and advancing humanity, they certainly didn't care how many human corpses and shattered souls they left in their wake.

He had never hated the phrase 'the ends justify the means' as much as he did when Cerberus said it. So often the ends seemed to turn up nothing. Just bodies.

The medlab was one of the most extensive setups he'd ever seen. "You think their head honcho got sick?" he asked idly as Clary tapped in.

"I don't think so," Clary shook his head. "From what I can get…they called the project Lazarus…"

"Like the dead guy?" McKinley frowned.

"They probably didn't mean the singer," Clary responded dryly. "Man, their scrub team just fragged the—hold the phone…" Clary stopped working as the display flickered, showing snow.

The words were garbled, though Sheffler caught 'Lazarus' at least once. "Can you scrub that, Clary?"

"Not me…whoa…"

Sheffler's stomach turned: it looked as though the skin covering the body—a woman's body—was freshly grown, as though someone had peeled the skin away to expose the tender pink layer beneath.

"Is that a…flayed human?" Kestrel asked a little thickly.

"_Is_ it human?" Clary asked.

"Looks like." Sheffler bit down his nausea, but jumped when Grieves called him via his radio.

"_Sir, you're going to want to come look at this."_

"What'd you find?" Sheffler peeled his eyes away from the grotesque footage before him. The flayed thing seemed to have woken up…the footage cut out just as hands reached to restrain it. How much pain had that poor bastard been in?

"…_Commander, Charli was fooling around with a terminal and found an uncorrupted data cache. Sir_…" Sheffler could almost hear Grieves shaking his head.

"Spit it out, Paul."

"They seem to think they resurrected Commander Shepard. Successfully."

Sheffler's feet went cold. "Successfully?"

"_They were pretty explicit about what they'd done,_ _John. I'm telling you: I'm looking at her _right now_. Security footage from when the facility started to go under."_

Sheffler swallowed. That kind of evidence lying around? Someone _wanted _this information found, which begged the question 'why?'. When Cerberus was concerned it was essential to look a gift horse in the mouth. "All right, what's your position?"

Shepard? Alive? It was unbelievable…even for Cerberus this was a stretch…

…but he couldn't quell the feeling that for all the times Cerberus had failed they had to get lucky sooner or later.

Ten minutes later he stood in what looked like the security officer's office, Charli brought up files showing Shepard, clearly injured, sliding off a medbay table before wading out into a mech-infested station.

"You think this is just a setup?" Clary asked.

"Could be." Sheffler had to wonder if Cerberus finally got lucky.


	57. The Middle

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Jacob Taylor felt like a sucker. Any career soldier knew the feeling, but he thought he had left it so _very_ far behind.

He never expected to feel like a sucker while working for Miranda…or, more accurately, for Shepard with Miranda breathing down his neck. From the cargo bay floor, he cast a baleful eye at the observing second-in-command. Her ever-pleasant expression was firmly in place, but he suspected she enjoyed watching him getting beat up.

He waved sarcastically, and she twiddled her fingers back at him.

Testing Shepard's combat readiness in her new 'regular' armor was _not_ how he'd planned to spend his morning.

"Up you get, Taylor." Shepard grabbed him by the forearm and hauled him to his feet. He half expected her to clock him in the face—again—as soon as he was at punching height, but she did not. In fact, when he was not trying to fend her off, she did not look really vicious.

"You ready?" She adjusted her helmet, backing up a couple meters.

"Sure…" 'No biotics' had never been so irritating. He caught Shepard's punch, but he _felt _it when she hit him. "You sure they didn't do something funny to your bones?" he demanded, as Shepard tried (and failed) to grapple him into a position to throw him to the ground.

Her lack of success reminded him that, at the very least, he had more mass than she did; all that bulk really was good for something. "Ask Miranda…_move_…"

"Not happening, Commander…" He nearly took an uppercut to his chin, but dodging away from it—and giving Shepard a hearty shove—set him off balance.

_Boom_. She moved fast, kicking him in the back of the knee, which sent him to the floor. Jacob glowered up at her as she backed up, her hands raised. She did not lord the ass-kicking over him, but he now understood why Miranda wanted _him_ to do this, not some kid who'd be done a lot of good by getting pounded by a living hero.

"Okay…Miranda, you sure you don't want to do this?" he called before adding, under his breath, "The _average_ human isn't doing so well…"

"Oh, Jacob," Miranda purred, as she got to her feet.

Shepard helped him up, again, but her eyes remained fixed on Miranda, mildly mistrustful. It puzzled Jacob: he and Miranda _both_ worked for Cerberus, so why not mistrust all around? It wasn't the first time he'd pondered this.

"Why would I want to damage something I put two years of hard work into?" Miranda brushed imaginary dust from his shoulder.

"The only thing getting damaged here is _me_," Jacob gestured with his thumb.

"You could have told me you were bored three rounds ago," Shepard noted blandly. "I'd have let you quit. No point pummeling someone who's not enjoying it."

"Just trying to make you look good, Commander." He stopped, realizing he'd spat this out without paying attention. When he glanced over at Shepard he found her smiling in a Miranda-esque fashion.

Now _that_ was scary. No, it was not _quite_ like Miranda's. With Miranda, you weren't sure what she was actually smiling at. With Shepard it was different, she was genuinely amused, but did not expect him to get the real joke.

He suspected he merely reminded her of someone or something from her 'previous life', as there was nothing particularly conniving or calculating in the look.

'_It's that 'too lazy to go kill it look—you'll know which one it is as soon as you see it'._ Joker's warning echoed in the back of Jacob's mind. Yeah, that would be the 'too lazy to go kill it' look right there. He could see what Joker meant, and the description—at which he had initially laughed—was dead on.

"Cease and desist, Taylor. For your own sake." Shepard broke him out of his private thoughts by clapping him on the shoulder in 'friendly marine fashion' before striding off, picking up a towel.

Miranda let Shepard leave the room, without protest that the screening was not yet over. "I think she likes you, Jacob."

"Why? 'Cause she didn't put me in the hospital?"

Miranda's giggle was like fingernails drawn slowly up his spine. "She'd never put a good subordinate in the hospital. It'd mean _she_ was no good, by her rather narrow definitions. No, she _definitely_ likes you."

"Jealous?"

Miranda's eyes glittered, though he was not sure with what. "I think you're _like_ her type, Jacob, but you're not 'like' enough." She patted his shoulder as well, gently, before handing him a small towel. "Get mopped up. _He_ wants another word with her. We'll be pulling out soon."

"This it, then?"

"This is the real thing. Time to see if she measures up." Miranda's attention fell to the datapad in her other hand.

"She'll measure up." He had no doubt about that. Fresh off the slab into a nest of hostile mechs and hardly a scratch to show for it. She just needed to rebuild muscle and endurance. The Lazarus procedures could only do so much.

"Hmm. To your standards, hers, or mine?" Miranda asked, abstractedly.

Miranda was a tough critic, though usually tougher on herself. "Yours."

Miranda looked up, as though expecting to find him joking. "We'll see. Keep close to her. I don't want anything going wrong." Her tone lost its playful notes, settling back into calculating coldness. "She's going to be running around without any kind of failsafe. So I'm appointing her one. If not me," she poked him indicatively with the datapad, "then you. You're the only one I can trust with that, I think."

With that, she stalked out.

Jacob mopped his face slowly. It was hard to tell what Miranda was thinking, let alone what games she was playing. He appreciated the vote of confidence, but Miranda learned about strings, attachments, and caveats from one of the best. It was never safe to take anything she said at face value.


	58. Background

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Admiral Hackett faced Councilor Anderson with some trepidation. It wasn't often that Councilor Anderson requested that he show up in person. When he did it usually meant something important was happening.

"Good to see you, Admiral."

"Councilor," Hackett nodded. That was the end of the formalities. From here on in they were Steven and David. "What was so hot you couldn't dump it in my inbox?"

Anderson shook his head. "You'll want a drink for this one, Steven."

Hackett frowned, then tossed his hat into one of the chairs facing Anderson's desk and followed Anderson over to the cupboard where he kept his drinks. "That bad, huh?"

Anderson did not respond until they both had ice, booze, and were sitting down. In fact, he held off on speaking until Hackett had his first sip.

The news was, after all, hard to believe. By this point, though, Anderson was willing to do so, to some extent. Not completely, not without some proof, but preliminarily speaking…it was better Hackett hear it from him _now_. "I've got intel that suggests Commander Shepard may not be as dead as we thought."

Hackett's frown returned deeper than ever, the gesture causing the scar to further mar his features. "Really?"

"Tali'Zorah was in my office when Commander Alenko got back from his investigation of Freedom's Progress. She indicated that she'd found Commander Shepard, also supposedly investigating the disappearances. Her report included an extranet address that accepted a communique from the Migrant Fleet. I've tried it, but I intend to get in contact with someone who might be able to provide a more…up to date…address."

Hackett exhaled and drained half his glass. "That's, well...I'd normally call it 'crazy'."

"So would I. Alenko said that the colony showed signs of a unit using standard Alliance enter-and-clear methodology. And, his written report goes on, the security footage left seemed to have been a backup copy—the data's original location was fragged. He noted that the frag job was expert and expressed surprise that a backup had been left where anyone looking for it could find it."

"A message?" Hackett asked.

"Could be. Sounds like Shepard: sends Tali to signal for help but leaves something for the investigatory teams to find. That's how we know it was the Collectors that hit the colony."

Hackett passed this over, accepting the improbable the better to focus on the impossible. It sounded like what any N7 was trained to do: make contact as soon as possible. "He's convinced the footage is genuine?"

"Tali's account backs his. She's even offered to forward us the data sent to Shepard…or Shepard's doppelganger. I told her we'd appreciate it."

"David, there's no way Shepard could have survived Alchera."

"We never found the body, and here's the reason why I haven't dismissed it entirely: she was with a Cerberus unit. They're looking into the colony disappearances."

Hackett pressed his lips together. "We had a theory that Cerberus might have been _involved_ with those disappearances. You know how much value they put on human life. On _any_ life."

"I'd heard rumors," Anderson answered benignly. "But either they have nothing to do with the disappearances or Shepard isn't really Shepard. Tali seems to have asked her something that only the real Shepard would know—some proof she found satisfactory."

"You told Alenko?"

"Shepard seems to have impressed on Tali that if anyone was told anything I'd be the one doing the talking. Probably best—you know he had trouble after she died."

Hackett nodded, trying to wrap his head around what Anderson was suggesting. Cerberus was unethical and boundary-pushing (whatever else their failings), but bringing someone back from the dead…

Though, he had to admit that if any human entity could do it, it was probably Cerberus. "She tried to come in?"

"She won't if she thinks the Alliance won't do anything about the colonies. Her personal history…" Anderson waved. "She can't walk away from something like that—not even if it means being branded as a terrorist, or a supporter of a terrorist organization."

Hackett finished his drink without tasting it. "The Admiralty is worried about the turians smelling weakness in the Alliance's apparently inability to protect their colonies. To say 'we don't know what's doing it or why' isn't on the agenda."

"Damn the agenda."

"What about our mole?" Hackett pressed, carefully covering his bases.

"Not Shepard. Never. I'll bet you hard credits—or a good bottle of Scotch—that we'll be getting little messages from her, sooner or later." He didn't mean letters and Hackett knew it. Shepard would simply cause blips on the radar—to use the antiquated expression.

"Sheffler's running down that mole, David. If he gets the idea that Shepard and the mole are the same person, he will move heaven and Earth to take her down. And he could probably do it."

"Then push him in the wrong direction. Stall him," Anderson answered almost snappishly. "If I can get word to her, I will. Hell, sooner or later she'll probably waltz into my office."

It was safer for her than waltzing into Arcturus. Anderson didn't have military jurisdiction anymore…and Shepard did have Spectre credentials.

Or she _had_. Hackett wasn't sure how Spectre affairs worked.

"If she shows up, I can get her reinstated into the Spectres. Spectres aren't declared 'dead', you know—just 'inactive'."

"Never?" Hackett chuckled.

"Well, two or three times their species' lifespan and they're declared 'retired'."

Both men smiled at this joke of semantics.

"Keep me apprised," Hackett declared, "I won't jump the gun, but I can't exactly ignore this if it becomes public knowledge. Give me copies of the reports and footage—I'll see what conclusions I can draw."

"And the Admiralty?"

Hackett smiled grimly. "I'll handle it. Rumors and gossip are beneath their notice, you know."

"No, but I never wanted to be one of the Admiralty," Anderson shook his head, clearly having dodged a bullet, there.

"No fear of that. Speaking of Spectres, how's our boy doing?"


	59. Sounding Out

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Miranda looked up from her table in the almost-empty mess hall. Sometimes it was nice to climb out of her office. She spent a great deal of time behind her desk, but only because she had no choice. Given her way, she would have spent much of it either at Shepard's shoulder or doing 'the XO thing'. So far, her methodology had not prompted correction from Shepard, despite their different approaches.

She had to wonder, sometimes, what was going on in the Commander's gray matter. "I'm starting to worry Shepard. You're not sleeping."

Shepard expected some kind of personal statement, as she sat down across from her executive officer. Miranda might be prickly, but she still looked at her, Shepard, as a work in progress. Anything wrong, anything abnormal needed to be dealt with. In an odd way, it was reassuring to know an obsessive perfectionist was watching her back.

Just as it was irritating to know virtually everywhere on this ship was bugged and feeding data to the Illusive Man's willing puppet.

As time went on, however, the pushiness, the almost bossiness, began to diminish. It had become more…more of a prompting. Almost like professional advice from a corporate veteran to a corporate newcomer. The real support a CO needed from an XO, on any smooth-functioning ship. They worked in tandem, as a team, or it all fell apart.

Personal like or dislike was saved for off-duty hours.

"That wouldn't have been in my files," Shepard fetched herself a small bottle of juice from the late-night cooler, cracking it open. "I never sleep the whole night through while I'm shipside." When Miranda cast her a dubious look, Shepard shrugged, "Ask Dr. Chakwas if you don't believe me."

Shepard finished her juice in two long gulps. "And she wants me to switch to this stuff…"

"I haven't had to file requisition orders for your secret stash, so I don't think the good doctor should worry. In fact, I suspect she enjoys worrying. Believe me, caffeine addiction is the _least_ of your problems." Miranda did not mean to say this out loud, but distraction from her current project left little room for verbal filters.

"I'm glad _someone's_ on my side. How'd you find out about the Astro-Fizz?" It was not something that should be in her records. Something like that required someone who knew her. She had certainly never endorsed the product.

"People talk." If Shepard knew how much had been wormed out of Joker, she might have thrown the pilot out of the ship at the next docking point, labeling him a major security risk.

"Uh huh." Shepard disposed of the juice bottle, leaning on Gardner's workstation, which snuggled against Miranda's quarters. Right, Shepard noted, where that pesky panel Alenko liked to work on should have been. "So, this a personal project or something professional?"

"I don't do personal projects, Shepard."

That was right: Miranda lived and breathed Cerberus just as she, Shepard, once lived and breathed Alliance. "Everyone needs a hobby. Hmph. My first captain built little ships in bottles. _Wooden_ ships, mind you."

She had no intention of filling out the model ship collecting case in her 'office'. The _Normandy_ model would be the only one there, alone and without competition to draw away an onlooker's attention. Just like the original had been.

Miranda's hackles rose. It was not like Shepard to be so…personable. She usually accepted that Shepard was still working to win her crew to her banner, even though most of them were already won. It was late in occurring to her, as it had on Freedom's Progress, that if Shepard ever went rogue the Commander would walk off with most of the crew. Fortunately, she could not see this happening _before _the Collectors were stopped. "Odd information to volunteer. What is it you really want, Shepard? The Lazarus medical files? Watch yourself be put back together?" She could understand the morbid curiosity of such a thing.

Shepard's expression grew stony. "There are some things you can never un-see. I've seen several; I don't need my own resuscitation process bored into my mind's eye. Thank you." It was not a joking matter. She did not _want_ to see herself, what was left of herself…

She did not want to watch herself put back together. She had not run into many situations where lack of body-shyness was a necessity, but there was a difference between having someone walk in while one was in the shower and being a naked science experiment on an operating table.

Particularly since she had not sought the medical assistance.

Shepard shivered: no matter how many times she tried to desensitize herself to the facts by using the phrase 'science experiment', the sense of unease in her stomach would _not_ abate. Not in the slightest. Maybe it was time to find a new descriptor...

Miranda, somewhat chastened by the bite in Shepard's tone, took in the stiffness of the Commander's movements as she fetched another bottle of juice, chugging it as an irritated woman might pound a beer. "I didn't mean to offend you."

"You didn't." But Shepard sounded tired. "Just thought I'd try to get to know my XO before we have to hit dirt. That's it; no ulterior motive."

Miranda considered this, right up until Shepard started to walk away. "Well…I spent two years studying you, I suppose fair's fair." Shepard sat down, to Miranda's relief not pointing out that life was painfully unfair to begin with. Shepard undoubtedly learned to take 'fairness' when she could get it.

"Relax," Shepard chuckled as Miranda's posture straightened, evidence that the biotic was on the defensive, despite her apparent willingness to chat. "I'm not going to ask you about painting toenails or hot-kissing boyfriends."

"Then what _do_ you want to ask?" Miranda had no doubt that Shepard was priming herself for an interrogation. A carefully-worded one, in which Shepard would weigh and cross-reference Miranda's answers with known facts.

Luckily, Shepard was short on those.


	60. Break

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Garrus shook from the tip of his fringe to the ends of his talons. His armor suddenly felt too big, the visor's HUD too bright. It was wrong, it was a nightmare, just a nightmare…

…but a nightmare didn't smell like blood, a nightmare didn't have the sense of flesh cooling as it assumed room temperature. Nightmares didn't have eyes with _that_ kind of glassy quality. He'd never had a comrade die in his arms before now and he sincerely wished he'd never experienced it. Yet, for all that, he knew he needed to get up and do something about the corpses…it was too hard. It was easier to just sit here like a child with a stuffed toy and cradle the body of the one who had held out longest.

He would have laughed, or made comment, once, on the idea of clinging so hard to someone else—someone not a romantic interest, anyway—but now he didn't care. This was a brother, closer than a brother…and he was gone.

They were gone.

They were all gone…

…but he wasn't. He had escaped, while they had not. And now he understood; he understood everything.

Too little, too late: if he wasn't jumping in feet first he was too slow on the uptake. Feast or famine, as the humans said…and now _this_. Some of them had families. Young families…how was he to tell them that part of that family wouldn't ever come home?

He'd done this.

And Sidonis had done this.

The sounds of mercenaries celebrating outside the garage reached his ears through his mental haze. They were whooping and letting off steam after decimating the one group on Omega they could all hate together.

They would probably come to desecrate the bodies, soon, to make examples of the dead. Why they felt it necessary not to hold their revels in the captured base of operations remained a mystery to him.

Maybe they really did have some shred of superstition: don't dance on your enemy's grave until you've seen the body. Well, a report on the condition of _his_ body would be long in coming.

The thought made him shake all over, not with pain—though that was still there—but with fury. Rage. It was stronger than anything he had ever felt before, brought with it a deceptive calm. With a deep, determined breath he blinked his eyes several times to clear them—turians did not 'cry' like humans did, the mucosal coating of the eyes simply grew thick until contaminants could slip across the curved surface to be blinked loose. Carefully, he disentangled himself from the limp form of Monteague, arranging the body as well as he could.

The eyes wouldn't stay shut, and it made his gizzard quiver uncomfortably. It was not as though he had not seen death before. He had…

…just not like this. Never like this.

His hand found his sniper rifle, cast off when he tried to revive Monteague. Slowly, almost businesslike, he padded to the control hub near the back stairs. Then he stopped, just short of closing the place up like a…clam. That was the human word: like a clam.

But as soon as he did that, anyone outside would know someone was home, and the bodies would have to lie here in disarray.

No, he couldn't do that. They deserved better. With the scum of Omega reveling outside he had a little time. He would make the best of it.

Slinging his sniper rifle over one shoulder, he picked Monteague up in a fireman's carry, and moved slowly to the main floor of the base, carefully putting the fragile human down on the floor, limbs decently posed, before going upstairs to fetch the blanket off Monteague's bed. The glassy stare bothered him so much, he didn't think he could fight if he knew that stare was visible.

Besides: the blanket would protect the dead, a little…or it seemed like it might. His mind did not want to work right, and all these deaths reminded him somehow of Williams'. They left her for just a moment—it seemed only a moment—and then they lost her.

It was the same here, except this time there were bodies.

He couldn't tell how long it took to move them all—Grundan Krul gave him a lot of trouble, the batarian being so big—and decently cover their bodies. The ten little hummocks looked less perverse, somehow, now that they had no faces, no identifying features except for their general builds. But he could tell who was whom, even if he had not been the one to put them there.

Twelve men, ten dead, one soon to be…and one a traitor.

Garrus let out a bitter laugh, glancing out towards the front door: no one was watching it, though he caught movement on the far side of the bridge.

If he could, he would have put Sidonis where he rightly belonged. The turian belonged in a _bag_. But he was stuck here, and Sidonis wouldn't have stuck around.

His team had been sorting the plunder—if that was the word for it—in the main complex when the attack came—no one was in the garage, but it was clear that everyone had fought to the last, were left to bleed out slowly as a token of the disgust the gangs of Omega held for them.

Garrus disengaged his rifle from his shoulder as he went back down into the basement, heading straight for the control hub.

No one noticed him.

The shutter doors closed at a touch, sealing off the three basement/garage level entrances, to the shock of the mercenaries outside. Three swift bashes with his rifle destroyed the console. The shutters wouldn't open without extreme force, or a _really_ good tech. Thankfully, the mercs around here were short on good techs. He knew they heard the shutters close, probably saw them.

But they couldn't do anything. Those suckers were sealed good and tight.

Grimly, almost as though he could see the road leading to the sharp drop into his own coffin, he strode to the upper story of the building, to the dormitory overlooking the narrow bridge. He knew he was right to pick this particular spot. Hard to access the lower level, hard to come at it from the front. Kneeling, he peered through his scope.

They were celebrating over there, too, though not in such great numbers. But they were all Blue Suns. He couldn't see Tarak, but that was all right. Tarak would come to him, before the end.

The last nail in Garrus' coffin was loud.

It went _BOOM_, straight into the head of a laughing batarian.


	61. Words

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

To: Captain L. Robbins

From: Commander J. Shepard

Don't let the letterhead fool you: it's probably the reason I won't try to send this. Still, I'll feel better for having written to you, to let you know I'm okay. I would normally use a vid-recording or go through the extranet, but Cerberus reads my mail, I'm sure, and sometimes I want to keep my thoughts to myself.

I'd almost forgotten how awful my handwriting is.

It's been a rough few weeks: waking up in a sabotaged Cerberus facility, seeing what the Collectors did at Freedom's Progress…I used to think Mindoir had me primed for anything bad that could happen to a colony. I was wrong on that score. I'd never seen anything like it before: the total wrongness of it, the silence, as if the place had just frozen in time.

The Place That Time Forgot.

I guess that's why I'm writing this to you: I don't want to use the mentality I had after Mindoir—the one you helped me break out of—on the Collectors. It would be counterproductive, and you'd kick my ass the moment you found out I'd fallen back into old habits.

Track me down and kick my ass. But if you were here…I might have some help. Someone I trust. Most of the crew here seem like decent sorts—fringe members who wouldn't even be here if the Alliance hadn't sat on their duffs and played with their toes.

I'll admit, I'm feeling a little anti-Alliance at the moment. I don't know: I guess I thought that I could rely on them to spring me, as soon as they found out I was alive. Spring me and get the ball rolling to defeat the Collectors. Why is it that the only ones who are remotely worried about the Reapers—and their Collector pawns—are the pro-humanity, anti-alien crowd?

But that's that: I'm on my own for this one, apparently.

We're actually out in the Terminus Systems, on a vector for Omega—the space station. I've heard it's a rough place, full of batarians, lots of crime. A real cesspool. But my XO—Cerberus is playing military here—says there's someone who might be able to fill out the ground team. Right now the ground team consists of three people. I'm one. Two are biotics, but one of them is former Alliance. Him I could get to like; he seems like a pretty decent fellow.

The XO is a good XO, I think, but maybe not someone I could ever _like_. But as you used to say 'you don't have to like someone to work with them'. I have a presentiment that, if I ever get to a point when I can leave her on the ship without compromising a ground mission, then I'll be leaving the ship in good hands.

Speaking of good hands: the Normandy flies again. It may be a rebuild…but I'll take what I can get. It would be very easy to consider myself 'home'. I didn't realize it before I…died…but the Normandy was more of a home than any I've had during my military career.

Do you think those two years I spent on a slab will 'count' if I managed to get reinstated and keep out of the brig? Or the hangman's noose: Cerberus' name is just 'mud' with the Alliance. I wouldn't be here if I had a viable option…so don't think less of me for my current…alliance. I can honestly say I won't compromise myself, or fall for their pro-human bullshit.

I'm still me. It doesn't sound like much, but it's what I've got. I take what I can get in the hope and 'what I've got going for me' departments these days. I have a feeling I'll need the practice.

-J-

Have you ever been to Omega? I took a break from writing this—my hand was really hurting, I'm so out of the habit of on-paper correspondences—and looked it up. It's definitely not Alliance space…I get the feeling that, out here, diplomacy involves more knuckles and fewer empty courtesies. I don't know what to think about that, except that I might take a leaf out of your book and invest in a pair of brass knuckles.

There's a lot of bad hoodoo out there, even without the batarian presence: vorcha, for instance. Nasty suckers, I'll bet they chew on you before you're dead. They look capable of it. That's just…ugh. I don't want to think about it.

Three main factions to worry about: Blood Pack, Blue Suns, and Eclipse. I've heard of them, but if we've come face-to-face, I don't know about it. I assume bad blood, just to be safe. I tell you, I'm bracing for trouble out here, Robbins—trouble on all sides. Maybe I'm just edgy because I can't find a couple of my crewmen. Maybe I'm edgy because I'm about to wade into a potential hot zone without a good idea of what I'm getting into, and after getting out of practice at doing it.

We'll find out if my training makes it like riding a bike. My guts say I'm just worrying because I haven't got anything better to do at the moment.

I'm nervous—if things go badly, there'll be more gunplay than there was at Freedom's Progress, more than just a few rewired security mechs. (You know how much trouble security mechs give me, if I've got my omnitool, and Cerberus flipped for a _nice_ one, I have to admit.)

Anyway, I guess this is where most people would say 'don't worry about me, I'll be fine'. I won't, though, since you worrying won't help the situation any. You can appreciate that, I think.

Well, there it is: I just got the half-hour call, so I'd better start putting my game face (and my armor) on. It'll be interesting. Maybe I'll write you a letter I'll actually send once I get back.

All my respect,

Jalissa A. Shepard


	62. Acid-Base Reaction

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Miranda watched Shepard sit down across from her. Truth be told, she had anticipated this conversation, but she had expected to have it significantly earlier. "Firstly, Cerberus isn't as evil as most people—yourself included—believe. I'd be happy to allay any concerns you might have."

"Have you ever seen a veggie zombie up close and personal?" Shepard asked simply.

The question didn't faze Miranda. "Have you seen one since?"

"Kinda hard to see anything when you're dead on a slab."

"The cell responsible for those—the cell in its entirety—was wiped out by Commander Sheffler. He finished the job six months after your…accident. You won't find any more 'veggie zombies' shuffling around. I don't mind giving you my personal assurance."

"Sheffler?" Shepard's eyebrows rose.

"Easier and cheaper than a scrub team." Vastly so.

"And if the zombies got him…?"

"I can see you're trying to maneuver me into admitting something. It's unnecessary: simply put, Sheffler made life rather difficult from time to time. I doubt the Illusive Man would be very upset if Commander Sheffler _had_ died. Frankly, I feel that Commander Sheffler has a great deal of potential. There are quite a few uses he could be put to."

"Unwittingly," Shepard noted.

"Of course."

"I know what we're doing _here_," Shepard gestured to the ship, "but why don't you tell me what Cerberus' long-term goals are."

"You already know."

"I want to hear it from you."

"Do you always bite the hand that feeds you?" Miranda asked bemusedly. It was clear that Shepard was hitting her for reactions—though the clarity of this tactic puzzled her. Shepard had a reputation for being a little more subtle…unless she felt there was no point wasting the energy to be subtle. That could be a compliment, though a roundabout one.

"Trust me, Miranda," Shepard gave her a grim smile, "if I decide to bite you'll be the first to know."

"Fair enough. Our goal is the advancement of humanity, nothing more and nothing less." Miranda suddenly found herself subject to intense scrutiny. "The salarians have the Special Tasks Group, the asari have their legendary commandos for stealth and recon operations, Cerberus is humanity's answer to those organizations."

"The advancement of humanity _at any cost_." Shepard discounted the second sentence as irrelevant. Miranda could see why. Clearly Shepard felt that a government mandate changed the dynamics a little bit.

"You can't make me ashamed of my affiliation, Shepard. And you can't change my mind: Cerberus is the best hope humanity has on the galactic stage. Even you have to admit that, of all the organizations you're familiar with, we're the only ones investigating the colonies and the Collectors."

"That's true. So let's talk logistics—I noticed you're the quartermaster as well as my executive officer."

"You don't know our channels and I doubt anyone—yourself included—wants you scuttling around Cerberus' resource webs. Suffice it to say that our resources are good, but not unlimited. I practically swore a blood oath to the Illusive Man to maintain fiscal responsibility."

"That doesn't surprise me."

Whether Shepard meant Miranda's swearing a blood oath or that the Illusive Man requiring one wasn't clear. "I know what you're getting at: take it from me that you're a significant investment as well as a significant risk. No one is planning to throw you under the rapid transit vehicle."

Shepard smiled faintly at this. "I deserved that—but I get the feeling there's something in the word 'risk' that bears discussion."

"You're like a virus, Shepard. Containment is important."

"Ouch, and thank you."

Miranda found herself unwillingly amused. "If it were up to me, I'd have done a few things differently," she admitted after a moment's consideration. Shepard wasn't the only person who could hit for reactions.

"Such as?"

"Such as implanting a control chip into your brain prior to you coming online."

Miranda's eyes narrowed slightly as Shepard considered this statement. Slowly, the Commander began to nod. "Logistically speaking, I quite agree with you. Personally speaking, I'm glad you didn't. What stopped you?"

"The Illusive Man." Shepard's grimace at the fact that this really did require gratitude in the Illusive Man's direction was worth quite a bit to Miranda. Still, it surprised her that Shepard could so nonchalantly agree with the logistical value of such a decision—most people would be too appalled by the idea to consider it objectively. "He was afraid the chip might somehow alter your mental function. You've made a career of doing the impossible, and now you're expected to do it again. I hope you can measure up. No pressure."

Shepard simply shrugged. "We'll see."

There was something in those two words that gave Miranda a pang of unease. Shepard had obliquely hit her for a reaction and apparently gotten one, or found some subtext in her statement. "We'll see," she agreed, certain she did not betray anything but agreement with the vague answer.

Chatting with Shepard was not like chatting with most people; Miranda wasn't sure if this was a point in the Commander's favor or not. On the one hand it was nice to have someone with sharp mental function to cross wits with—for this conversation had that feel to it. On the other hand she could almost feel Shepard fingering at the collar and leash Cerberus had on her, feeling out how it might unfasten, figuring out how she could slip out of it, and whether she could do so without anyone realizing it.

"I'm glad he stepped in. But you were right, at the end of the day."

"Cerberus gave you a second chance, Commander. Perhaps you might consider doing the same for us."

Shepard smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile, but the sort of smile one gives a person with whom she can go toe-to-toe and end up in a stalemate. "This has been a _good_ conversation."

Miranda nodded, believing the words at face value. "It has." And it was, to her surprise, quite true.


	63. Personal

Beta-read by Saberlin.

Author's Note: I try not to put too much of Shepard and Miranda side by side, but in this instance it's unavoidable. This takes place after the last chapter, but not immediately after.

-J-

"So," Shepard frowned as Miranda checked her shield generator. It bothered her that the biotic didn't feel the need to wear armor like a sensible person. Especially here since, from what she understood about Omega, armor was practically _de rigueur_. "Tell me about yourself. Like why you don't want to take decent care of yourself. You can't be my XO if you're full of bullets."

Jacob chuckled, jogging Shepard's elbow. "It's 'cause she's that good."

"Jacob said something similar the first time we met," Miranda noted before sitting down beside Shepard on the bench near the gear lockers. "I suppose it's only fair that you know a little more about me, seeing as I spent two years learning everything there is to know you."

"I'll just wander over here while you girls talk," Jacob announced, pointing at the weapon racks.

Rather than tip her hand to Miranda that the biotic had no concept of what 'everything' entailed, Shepard opted to tease Jacob back. Jacob was her kind of people, if only in a loose sense: he was a good soldier (from what she could tell, and relative to whatever cause he chose), but he didn't compromise his own integrity when questionable situations came up. He seemed upfront and genuine, and had a sense of humor that facilitated easy communication. "You'd think," Shepard said, loud enough for Jacob to hear but quietly enough that he didn't have to respond, "that he was afraid we'd paint his nails!"

"Ha ha."

Chuckling at Jacob's response, Shepard returned her attention to Miranda and her armor.

"You should know that I've had extensive genetic modification…"

Shepard refrained from saying 'I never would have guessed'. No one ended up with a face that perfect without…help.

"…not my decision, but I make the most of it." This did surprise Shepard, prompting her to look away from the joint she was tightening. "It's one of the reasons the Illusive Man hand-picked me. I'm very good at just about anything I choose to do."

It did not sound to Shepard as though Miranda was boasting; she was simply stating facts. Her remark early on about Alenko being good but that she was better played in Shepard's mind. It was the same then: no embellishments, just the truth.

"My reflexes, my strength, even my looks. They're all designed to give me an edge."

Enlightenment dawned on Shepard. "Hence the catsuit." She motioned with one finger to Miranda's ridiculous 'uniform'.

Miranda's smile was predatory. "Hence the catsuit."

"Do you really think you need your own crewmates to misjudge you on your own boat?" Shepard asked laconically. She understood the value of being underestimated—though her reputation was such that she did not often have the benefit of that advantage. Miranda, on the other hand, seemed to scream for people to write her off as being any number of things.

None of those things included 'combat ready biotic warping your ass'.

"Do you really think you need to carry a gun on the Presidium Ring?" Miranda returned innocently.

"Point taken."

"My various advantages are the reason I'm often selected to oversee some of the most risky and technically demanding operations Cerberus undertakes. And it's why I was assigned to you. It's my job to make sure you succeed, Shepard."

There was something in Miranda's words—but not her tone—that smacked of self-justification. The confidence was there, but one could have confidence and still have uncertainties. Shepard didn't have enough to go on, yet, to hazard a guess at why Miranda suddenly wanted to justify her presence on the crew.

Or _did_ she have enough to go on? Her mind jumped back to Miranda's statement about genetic modification. 'Not my choice, but I make the best of it.' "What level of genetic modification are we talking about?"

"It's very thorough. I'm physically superior to the average human: I heal quickly and I'll likely live half as long again. My biotic abilities are also very advanced…for a human." The allowance for shortcoming surprised Shepard. "Add to that some of the best training and education money can buy and…well, it's pretty impressive, really."

But who was she trying to convince about being impressive? Knowing Miranda was perceptive—perhaps even more than she was—Shepard did not look at her XO, but continued assembling her armor. There was _definitely_ some hidden insecurity under the confidence, and Shepard began to suspect it had to do with the genetic modifications that made Miranda a cut above the norm. "Sounds like you were designed to be perfect."

She'd hit a nerve, or found a chip in the glass of Miranda's composure. "Maybe. But I'm not: I make mistakes like everyone else…and when I do the consequences are usually severe."

"That's the tradeoff for being good at what you do," Shepard agreed grimly. "With great responsibility comes great potential to fail." She knew that all too well.

"Indeed. Anything else you'd like to know?"

"No, no I think I've asked more questions than is probably wise." Too many more and Miranda would shut down any of the 'hints of self' she was dropping, and then Shepard would have to find a new way to gauge her. "I'm looking forward to seeing this unit in the field."

She didn't consider wrecking mechs on Freedom's Progress a good way to gauge this team.

"I don't think you'll be disappointed," Miranda responded.

Shepard chuckled as she stood up, pulling her helmet off the bench. "I'm sure I won't be. I disagree with the Illusive Man about a great many things, but I can't fault his choice of crewmen."

There was momentary suspicion around Miranda's eyes, as though the biotic was trying to find something in the sentence, some subtext that would make the general statement disingenuous. "He wants you to succeed," Miranda shrugged.

Shepard sighed. "You should know this about me: _I_ don't succeed. My team does. When there's a failure, _that's_ all on me."

The words seemed to shake Miranda momentarily.


	64. Snare

"Suggestions Commander?" Admiral Hackett asked wearily, fingering through the datapad's report.

Sheffler considered for a moment. This plan had spent the past few days percolating in his brain. It was not perfect, but a one-man plan rarely was. "I'd like to borrow one of your officers."

"Which officer?" came Hackett's suspicious query.

"Kaidan Alenko."

"Absolutely not," Councilor Anderson spoke for the first time, shaking his head.

"'Absolutely'?" Hackett drawled, his craggy, scarred face showing deep lines as he smile.

"Commander Alenko is tasked, as you very well know," Councilor Anderson retorted, his tone implying that it was Hackett's idea that he _be _tasked in his current capacity and shaking things up wasn't a good idea.

"Well, I'm not 'absolutely' sure of anything except that I want to hear what you're planning, Sheffler. Continue."

Sheffler nodded, avoided the baleful look from Councilor Anderson. He did not want to know what Alenko was tasked to do that Councilor Anderson wanted him so close to hand…

…but they probably had reports other than his—Sheffler's—that Cerberus was laying an information trail, so perhaps nothing he'd said so far was surprising to anyone. Not when it came to describing the station, its contents, and its significance, anyway.

Maybe Anderson was doing as he intended to: using Alenko as a lure to lure this 'Shepard' into the open. An N7 might break cover to contact a sympathetic faction, and Alenko plus Anderson probably added up to just that. Anderson was an N7 himself: he knew, in a broad sense, how his cohorts thought.

"If you want to know about 'Shepard', sirs," Sheffler sighed heavily, looking at the FTL consoles showing Councilor Anderson and Admiral Hackett, "then you're going to need to give her a reason to come to you. And if you want her to talk, you'll need to give her someone she'll talk _to_. Someone she'll _want_ to talk to. Commander Alenko is the only member of her ground team we have any modicum of sway over. He's also the last member of the original team, and he was with her all through her hunt for Saren. You're both soldiers, sirs: I think you can both appreciate the bonds between those who hit dirt together."

Hackett and Anderson both nodded at this, Hackett intrigued, Anderson mildly distasteful.

He did not need to raise the issue, as if anyone needed reminding, that it would take any interrogation team the Alliance could fish out a ridiculous amount of time and effort to crack Shepard. It was better to get her to talk because she chose to: an N7 was trained to resist interrogation, knowing that everyone broke eventually, but holding out as long as they could. He had the feeling Shepard would hold out longer than most, if this _was_ Shepard and if she _did_ end up under interrogation: she's hold silence just to spite what she saw as a movement of treachery. 'Spite, fight, and bite' as the N-program maxim went, though it was never intended to be applied to the Alliance.

"We'd need to stack the deck." Sheffler indicated that the two men should regard the data being sent to them. "An outline of my recommendation is tacked on at the end. My techs did some digging and uncovered a few fragments of data—it implicates the Collectors in the recent colony kidnappings. Charli says she feels confident in correlating this 'new Shepard' and the Collector attacks…though I, for one, do not believe that Cerberus is kidnapping colonies. They're brutal, but that's a bit much even for them."

The steady silence was his answer: Charli's guts were right.

"We'd need a little colony world on the edges of the Terminus—quiet place, isolated, just like the other colonies. Attractive target, probably one having…issues…with the Alliance." His stomach squirmed as he said it. Putting down a mousetrap for a fellow N7 was…

Well, it felt underhanded and dirty. Sympathy for the bait was much less pronounced.

There wasn't an N7 alive who hadn't sacrificed themselves or their men at some point in their career. The only thing an N7, any N-operative in a position of leadership, could control was why their men died.

And yet…there were ways for Shepard to get out of the trap—get out of it with the cheese, even—if she was clever…and if she was truly Shepard.

For what he had in mind the 'cheese' might just solve the issue once and for all.

Mi_g_ht. The 'cheese' here was a bit of an unknown.

"Shepard's a sharp woman," Sheffler summed up, "let's use hatt. I'm going to propose sending Commander Alenko to one of these backwater worlds and…very carefully…put it about that he's there. I'm sure there's some pretext we can find. I think she'll break cover to find out why we sent him, specifically, to a place that fits the profile of these abducted colonies."

And, if it _was_ Shepard, she might even try to recruit Alenko. Wouldn't it be useful to have a pair of eyes and ears in her vicinity?

"And you don't think Cerberus is behind this," Admiral Hackett repeated thoughtfully.

"No, sir. If they want Shepard they can't be kidnapping colonies. Based on the information I have, I believe this really is a Collector operation and that Cerberus isn't helping them. But Cerberus _is_ involved and that doesn't bode well for anyone. If this _is_ Shepard, we need to make contact."

A silence stretched before Sheffler continued. "Let me 'bump into' the Commander. I think I know what to say to prime him for this mission."

"And what's that?" Hackett asked, frowning.

Sheffler met the hologram's eyes. "I'm going to tell him the truth. Some of it."

"We'll need to think it over," Hackett announced, unsurprisingly. "Thank you for your suggestions, Commander. We'll be in touch."

Sheffler saluted as the displays dimmed. Unless they caught this Shepard-thing themselves, of course they'd be in touch.

The hunt for Cerberus' heads was his job, after all.


	65. Posture

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

It was Shepard's first time on Omega—in fact, if she'd ever heard of it, she didn't remember doing so. If one were to look in a dictionary, under the word 'filth', 'corruption', 'stagnation', 'rot', or 'pitiful' they would find either an image of Omega...

...or an image captured _on_ Omega.

The smell was overwhelming, so much so that for a moment Shepard wondered if she hadn't make a mistake, missed a note on the location detailing the need for respiratory units. But no, Miranda's nose was wrinkled at the bridge—and her mouth pulled into a straight line when it seemed to want to grimace—but she showed no sign of having forgotten breathing apparatus.

"I hate coming here," she announced grimly. "I always feel like I need a shower—in addition to normal decontamination protocols. Watch your step."

"Because it's a rough neighborhood or because…" Shepard trailed off.

"Both."

Shepard glanced over at Jacob, who sighed, shrugging. "Gotta endure what you can't cure, Commander."

"Yeah." But her expression clearly stated that this was the kind of place she usually saw from behind a weapon. It was too big a place for a team to hit and take down completely, but many fibers in her body would have liked to see a few teams come in and clean the place up.

The station was probably comprised of more slum districts than anything else. One didn't need to go very far to realize there were three classes of people: crime rings, thugs, and common citizens, whose 'importance' on the station ranked in that order.

"Tch," Jacob clicked his tongue, "trouble incoming."

Shepard made herself look first, kept her hand off her sidearm. The batarian bearing down on her made her go stiff, made it very difficult not to go for her pistol, if only to feel the comfort of it in her hand. Four bright, black eyes focused on her. Dark lips parted in a leer that was not reassuring, as it showed the many needle-like teeth for which batarians were known.

"Isn't this a surprise: gutter scum rumors come to life." The batarian lifted hands to indicate Shepard herself.

"See?" From almost nowhere a salarian appeared, fawning at the batarian's side with more agitation than enthusiasm. Clearly an informer, driven by necessity. Necessity bordering on desperation—the way he bobbed, always just out of arm's reach, was hard to watch.

"Leave, Fargut. Now."

The salarian stopped moving as though slapped, then gave a nervous laugh. "Of-of course, Moklan. Whatever she wants."

Shepard did not nod confirmation, but she wanted to. It was hard differentiate between batarian males and females if one hadn't seen the two together.

"Welcome to Omega, Shepard."

Shepard did not bridle under the growl in the tone, the menace. "Did I kill someone who belonged to you?" she asked simply, focusing her gaze into the batarian's top pair of eyes. The lower pair were oriented like those of most sapients, so most people, when they looked a batarian in the eyes, regarded the 'more normal' pair out of habit. In order to present a challenge, or to make a very strong point, one looked into the upper eyes—the pair less often regarded.

"If you had, you'd be dead."

During these first few exchanges, Shepard heard Miranda breathe a warning to Jacob: "Let her play this. If I'm not involved, don't get involved."

Shepard appreciated this. Jacob was a good man, but it was plain that his experiences had him at a disadvantage in a place like this. She couldn't tell if it was his first visit, didn't know how many encounters with batarians he'd had, and was therefore glad he was a biotic…and not prone to panicky behavior, as far as she could tell.

"I've heard that before. The company line seems to be wearing a bit…thin…don't you think?" This was all posturing, and Shepard knew it. In a place like Omega, with a race like batarians, everything boiled down to where one fell in the pecking order.

In this case, the conversation's outcomes ranged from simple posturing to one speaker shooting the other (but only if things got out of hand).

"Hmph. Only because you've met up with too many fools."

"Should I take something away from that remark?" Moklan's lip curled at Shepard's not-so-subtle question 'are you the next fool?' "Who do you work for, and what do they want?"

Moklan seemed to contemplate the fallout if she tried to engage Shepard directly. Only then did the batarian weigh Shepard's cohorts. Whether out of prudence or whether her boss was bad enough to keep her in line, Moklan gurgled in the back of her throat, a cross between a snake's hiss and a cat's purr.

"Duly noted," Shepard returned serenely.

"So, what brings a dead Spectre to Omega?"

Shepard's silence was articulate. She wasn't going to justify her existence to anyone's lackey, and felt certain this was the best answer. Outright rejection could provoke a fight, capitulation could be seen as a sign of weakness, but silence was neutral.

It was hard for a flunky to fight 'neutral'.

"I _suggest_, you go to Afterlife _now_, and present yourself to Aria."

"Also noted." Shepard stared Moklan down, communicating that she would go to Afterlife but not with that attitude coloring the air.

"Mean son of a bitch," Jacob exhaled, shaking his head as Moklan stalked off. "They all like him?"

"Him?" Miranda arched her eyebrows.

"_That_ one was female," Shepard said at the same time.

Jacob grimaced. "How can you tell?"

"Females are less blocky, and get…hissy…while posturing," Shepard noted. "Let's get this over with."

"Don't piss off Aria—she's a power here," Miranda warned. "Let's don't start the fight early, if we don't have to."

Shepard frowned over her shoulder. This was _not_ the kind place to belly up and 'play nice'; posturing was practically a social art. "You know better."

Miranda's eyes narrowed in grim humor. "No need to posture for _me_."


	66. Useful

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Aria T'Loak frowned as Moklan ran Shepard through the scanner. So this was the famous dead Spectre. A dead Spectre that made things explode. If _anything _on this station was going to explode, she would prefer to know about it beforehand.

"If your goon is looking for guns, she's doing a spectacularly poor job."

Ah, there was the antagonism. This was not the sort of place Spectre Shepard would like: there were too many batarians. "You can never be too careful—especially with dead Spectres. That could be anyone wearing your face." She was too far away to catch a hint of drift, but Aria could tell Shepard was taking her very seriously indeed.

Good. That was smart.

"I was told," a dark look at Moklan, "you were the person to come to with questions."

Aria, too, cast a look at Moklan, who nodded. "They're clean."

"That depends entirely on the questions." For a whelp by asari standards, Shepard was a shark under that pale skin. You just had to watch her eyes to know it: the capacity to be a cold-blooded, frigidly-logical single-purpose machine was behind them. Just the capacity, mind.

"Well, I would assume the person running Omega would have the answers to all my questions. Are you _really_ running Omega?"

Aria smiled, but it was not a nice smile by any stretch of the imagination. She turned to survey the club, but in her mind she could see the whole of the station, all its crawlways, all its districts, all of it. Her world.

"I _am _Omega. But you need more. More clout, more muscle…more brains…" This came with a glance at Moklan. It did not garner any sort of reaction from Shepard, except that she looked away from the batarian to focus on the real threat in this room. "More something, and they all come to me to get it. Omega has no titled ruler, and _only_ one rule…" Aria settled comfortably on her couch and clearly, with great deliberation, issued the one, all-important rule.

"I like it. Easy to remember."

"If you forget, someone will remind you." Aria glanced over at Moklan for emphasis, well aware that, while Shepard was many things, intimidated was not currently one of them.

"Then I get to boot your sorry ass out of the nearest airlock," Moklan leered, popping her knuckles in anticipation. Moklan, as Aria very well knew, had lost a half-brother when Elysium was attacked.

Shepard was the Elysium poster child, so Shepard attracted Moklan's ire, whether the woman ever fired a shot at Moklan's brother or not.

Shepard's drift spiked enough for Aria to catch it, icy with a loathing visible only in a narrowing of Shepard's eyes. "Try it, cupcake."

Aria considered for a few seconds as Shepard's expression turned into a smile, a smile with nothing humorous in it. It was plain that while Shepard was paid to kill the enemy…she would kill Moklan off the clock, if need be. "So, what kind of 'more' are you looking for?" Aria motioned Shepard to sit down.

Shepard settled comfortably, but in such a way as she could get to her pistol if she needed to. _That_, Aria was sure, was simply a learned behavior. This close she could feel Shepard's drift, a quiet, dull hum of discomfort encased in practiced calm, like the throb of an idling engine core.

"More information. I'm here for Archangel."

"You and half of Omega. You want him dead, too?" Aria smiled, but it was without humor. An unexpected answer, but it made sense. Unfortunately, Archangel was more likely to shoot Shepard than talk to her, him being in the position he was in. Archangel was an irritant, almost a black spot in her intelligence net. It would be worth a good deal to have him _off _her station.

Not that she would ever phrase it that way—that would imply she would 'owe' something the person who made it happen. And the mercenaries did stand a good chance of killing him anyway…_unless _Shepard went in, guns blazing. She was a little skeptical of half of Shepard's backup, but many asari dressed like _that_ every day: if you could distract someone that way…by all means, do it. Then they never saw the knife or the warp aimed at their back.

"I want him off your station. With a name like that, I suspect he's not very popular."

It was good to know Shepard read between the lines: a man with a name like _Archangel_ was pissing people off, trying to fight 'the good fight' when there was no good to fight _for_. Omega was a cesspool. _Her _cesspool, and while he kept clear of her, he was pissing off everyone else.

Not so smart.

"But in _very_ high demand. He's in a little…trouble…right now."

"Do tell."

"Three merc groups—usually at each other's throats—banded together to purge this little nuisance of theirs. They're actually recruiting; their little nuisance is putting up a good fight before he dies."

Shepard glanced at her compatriots, but her drift stayed steady. It was not the steadiness of someone practiced in keeping drift quiet—like a turian—it was that of someone keeping _all _personal considerations, thoughts, feelings, tightly under control.

It must be the batarian presence. "Recruiting room is over there."

"What can you tell me about him?"

"Showed up awhile back, no one saw him come in. He's reckless and idealistic." Shepard's aura shivered into a murky mix of blue rueful amusement and pain.

"You're being very accommodating: what's the hook?"

"I want Archangel _gone. _He hasn't crossed me yet, but he's disrupting the balance of power. And _that_ I won't stand for."

"Right." Shepard got to her feet.

"I also want _you_ gone."

Shepard met her eyes, utterly unperturbed by this. "That makes two of us. Thanks for the help."

"See if you feel that way once those mercs realize whose side you're on. Or once Archangel shoots you, either way."


	67. Quick Fix

Beta-read by Saberlin.

Author's Note: Shepard and company have just finished discussing 'the plan' to nab Archangel with Cathka.

-J-

_'She's preoccupied. I think she's worried about whether she's still herself…or if she's changed, just like everything around her has changed. I think something like that would be expected…so you'll need to keep a close watch on her, until she starts to find her equilibrium. I'm sure she's worrying needlessly, but you don't tell someone in her position that. It makes the problem worse.' _

Miranda nodded in agreement with Chambers' latest assessment of the Commander's mental status. Shepard seemed, sometimes, to be walking on eggshells; this was the first time she saw it happening in the field, though. Stopping the boy in Afterlife from signing up seemed like a reflexive act for her, though Shepard frowned about it later, as though assessing the dichotomy of her logic.

Shepard cast the re-charging wrench a quick glance before her mouth pursed and she strode off.

Mistakes. This batarian was an enemy, it surprised Miranda that Shepard had not silenced him (and so left the gunship vulnerable). Shepard was a soldier, and understood that this was completely different from attacking a civilian. The blue armor sort of served as an indicator.

Jacob eyed the re-charging wrench as well, though he quietly followed along, catching up to Shepard as quickly as possible. So, he'd thought about it, but chose to follow Shepard's lead. Good. Jacob had proved unexpectedly good at getting close to Shepard. Maybe because they were both soldiers, maybe because they had both spent time 'with but not with' the Alliance, he as a Corsair, she as a Spectre. Regardless, she wanted Shepard to trust Jacob—it would make things easier if the Commander thought she had someone to depend on once they hit the ground.

She did not expect that sort of trust for herself. She did not need it. Her job was not to be buddy-buddy with anyone, but to make absolutely sure Shepard stayed alive to do her job, and to keep nagging little details from becoming full blown problems.

Like this Cathka, for instance. Miranda hung back, glad of Cathka's preoccupation, as well as Shepard's. Or maybe Jacob was playing the two-way mirror, keeping the one side from seeing what the other was doing. A very uncomfortable position, and she appreciated his willingness to step in and do it.

Well, she, Miranda Lawson, didn't make mistakes. Moving carefully, so her heels did not click against the ground, she scooped up the re-charging wrench. She checked the settings. All green. Good. It would be a quick, easy way to deal with this…problem. It was not an industrial standard tool, but what on Omega _was_ of very good quality?

Still, it was enough, or should be.

"You're working too hard, batarian." He had not realized she was still there. He took a breath, but got no further as she jammed the wrench in between the plates of his armor. Cathka jerked and shook as the charge jumped through him, unable to shout for help.

Once he lay on the floor, the wrench still sparking, she pulled the tool free, eying the open panel on the gunship speculatively. Who cared about the batarian? He shouldn't be getting up at all, not with that much juice going through him.

She regarded the gunship again, aware of the passage of time. If the gunship blew up here and now, it would disrupt plans altogether. Jacob and Shepard had to be near the frontline already, and with things smoothly in motion…

No. The gunship would have to stay where it was; at least it was not fully fixed. She put the tool back where she found it, and hurried after Shepard and Jacob. She wished there was a way to silently disable the ship further, but it would look suspicious if she took too long in catching up with her team.

She could use the time it did take to come up with a good excuse for having lagged behind. The situation standing as it did, Shepard would not question excuses too closely. If things started really happening, she might never question those excuses, with everything else she crowded onto an already oversized plate.

The assault was just beginning as Miranda caught up with Shepard and Jacob, both of whom stood back, impassive, watching the other mercs dart out to hit the bridge. Shepard's fingers toyed idly with her tactical cloak, but she did not activate it. Jacob's shifting from foot to foot spoke plainly: he was not looking forward to crossing that bridge, either.

But he was a biotic; he had shielding abilities the Commander didn't. It would be for the best if Shepard used the cloak to give her time to sprint unseen across the bridge. From the sound of things, Archangel was not paid to miss. If they could recruit him, he would be an _exceptionally_ valuable skill.

But it did no one any good if he killed them, or ended up getting killed himself.

The last of the mercs hit the bridge. As though this was a cue, Shepard turned to regard Miranda over her shoulder. "What happened?" Shepard asked, frowning as the mercs took off across the bridge.

Miranda shrugged innocently, knowing now was not the time for interrogations. "Got a wrinkle in one of my socks. Couldn't walk comfortably, much less run."

"Mmm." Shepard clearly did not believe 'wardrobe malfunction', but agreed that now was not the time to ask questions. Archangel was picking off mercs every few seconds with a proficiency that made her wish Garrus was here. He and Archangel would have a lot in common. "Let's go say hello."

Miranda glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the gunship again, before raising her biotic barrier. She'd done her job: she had Shepard's back, and had made sure there was nothing preventable that could go extremely wrong.

Still, killing Cathka was nothing more than a _quick_ fix. She hated quick fixes; too often they turned out to be more trouble than a well thought out one.


	68. Reflect

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Garrus Vakarian almost dozed within his helmet, the sounds of shouting and jeering outside a morbid lullaby. Inside this bastion of defense the air hung thick, humid, reeking of death. Ten good men in unmarked graves.

And one turian. So deep down he could successfully avoid it most days, he knew he had failed. Spectacularly failed. It was not just failing to detect Sidonis' treachery. It was not failing his men when they needed him most. It was not failing to go back and stay back with C-Sec. It was not failure to stick with Spectre training. It was not even about failure to keep the galaxy from shoving Shepard, everything she did, into the intergalactic garbage disposer.

No, the biggest failure was the fact he had finally given up. It took a nuclear device to kill Williams. It took an ambush by unknown aliens to kill Shepard. It took an ambush to kill his men.

But he was in here, like a varren in a trap, biting at captors until finally overwhelmed. It was not a mistake he should have made; it was not a scenario into which he should have got caught.

But he had.

At least he could claim to have stirred up Omega's three big players into a concerted effort to kill one man. That would look good on a resume—a resume no one would ever see.

Yet it brought him no comfort. He had had the big three in his sights, each on his own, at least once, but they were still walking around, still breathing. What happened to that great marksmanship? If he had managed to do his job, things would have panned out differently. His men would still be alive, and he wouldn't see Sidonis' face plastered across every helmet into which he put a hot slug.

…_you can't control what the other guy's going to do, but you _can _control how you respond_…

Shepard's voice came muffled in his ears. In the past two years he had hated her on and off. Hated her for dying. Hated Joker for being the cause. Hated himself for hating her, when she had done her duty, what was expected of her.

Part of him hated her for leaving him suddenly without guidance. He had not realized how much he relied on her counsel, or her lead, until he had neither. Today was a day to hate her.

She would not support this course of action. The oh-so-great Commander Shepard would pull some miraculous way out of this whole mess, and they would all get out without a scratch and live happily ever after because Spectre Shepard lived and died doing the impossible…

…the bitter thought died like a cinder. What? Was she supposed to fight her way out of the vacuum of space? She was only human, and they were a squishy little species, for all they were tough like varren.

Shepard would not have got her entire team killed; she got them through Ilos, through the Citadel, through a hundred bad situations and lost only two soldiers…up until the attack, anyway. She would not have got her team slaughtered; she would have seen what he missed.

A round passed close overhead. They were getting better, but remained witless idiots.

They were not the only ones, but with death circling like a vulture he might as well be fair in his assessments.

If it came to being fair…

Garrus sighed, his eyes closing for a few moments. As soon as they did, tiredness backed away, like a little bug caught in a bright light, or in the shadow of a foot. It wasn't about Shepard, or about C-Sec or the Council, or the ingrates on the Citadel, the scum on Omega or the enemy outside.

The fact was, at the end of the day, he was responsible. From start to finish, he was responsible for this mess, a life-claiming mess. He could not get away from the fact, though at one point he had tried. Failed, but tried. No more of that; he had come to grips with it as best he could. He never knew how heavy lives he was responsible for could weigh until those lives were prematurely ended.

And most of them had had family of one form or another.

It was ridiculous for a turian to feel so reliant on a human's counsel…but there, that was stupid. Shepard was more of a turian than some turians he knew, even if she lacked the plates. Maybe that was why it had been easy to take instruction from her, that and the fact she seemed to know what it was to be brash, hard-headed, and unorthodox.

He had sometimes had the feeling he amused Shepard, the way a person was amused to find aspects of themselves in unexpected places.

He banished Shepard from his mind by wondering what she would say if she could see him now, if she knew the situation. No way it would be anything he wanted to hear, though he knew Shepard was not in the business of telling people what they _wanted_ to hear, but what they _needed_ to hear.

He peered over the sill of the window, his scope bringing the far side of the bridge into clarity.

More freelancers? It was not as though he would run out of ammunition anytime soon…

Among the rabble of Omega mercs, three stood out, heavily armed and well-armored (well, two of the three were). It was the white on the two behind the obvious leader that caught his eye—not something he recognized.

He sighted in on the leader. He had no desire to let three very well-armed professionals—they seemed very professional to him, letting the rest of the wave of freelancers go first—get near him.

And then the one at the fore glanced at her team and shuffled her feet preparatory to moving forward…

He knew that distinctive shuffle; it belonged to a dead woman.


	69. Comrade

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Shepard crushed a faint leap of irrational hope somewhere in the region of her diaphragm: she knew, once upon a time, a turian—that much about Archangel was obvious—who liked to wear blue. But, while Garrus was prone to getting into trouble, he would _never_ let himself get cornered like this in a place like Omega.

It wasn't his style.

The turian turned when she cleared her throat preemptively. He studied her for moment, then went back to peering through his rifle's scope.

After a quick glance with Jacob and Miranda—during which she implied, and they agreed, to play things coolly and cautiously—Shepard lowered her weapon just enough to make it clear she didn't intend to start the shooting. Her skin crawled as, from their positions behind her, Jacob and Miranda both put up barriers—barriers that included her. "Archangel?"

The turian raised a finger for a moment in which to act, then he went back to peering through his scope.

Shepard's eyes narrowed, knowledge leeching slowly into the very fibers of her being. She couldn't say with any certainty how she knew—lots of turians wore blue armor, since armor came in almost every color of the spectrum—but she did know.

Getting hemmed in wasn't Garrus' style, so something had gone wrong. Horribly, terribly wrong. A deep creep of unease stirred in the pit of her stomach. Two years for them, only a month or so for her: clearly things had changed and not for the better. She had always known it was too much to hope that things had stayed the same.

_Ptu_. The slug left the rifle at high velocity. She didn't need to see what it hit—there was no question of '_if_ it hit'. The turian got wearily to his feet, rifle hanging from one hand.

Shepard knew that the two biotics at her back did not like it when she strode forward, coming to meet Archangel halfway across the room.

The turian heaved a deep sigh, then unfastened his helmet, putting the article on the nearest surface and propping his gun against the nearest piece of furniture. "Shepard."

"Garrus." Shepard had to fight back a response she could only identify as 'irrational'. As comforting as it was to have Joker's and Dr. Chakwas' familiar faces aboard this new Normandy, well, they had never been in a firefight with her.

Oddly enough, Garrus didn't sound any more surprised to see her than she did to see him. In fact, they both assimilated the recognition that _you shouldn't be here_ very quickly indeed, writing it off as some minutia for later discussion.

Garrus was the first to hold out his hand.

Shepard was the first to throw her free arm about his shoulders.

The 'comrade hug' did not last more than a few seconds, but it seemed to contain an entire conversation within that short span of time.

"What are you doing here?" Shepard asked, casting around the room before waving her team to enter.

"Just keeping my skills sharp," Garrus shrugged.

There was something beyond weariness in his bright blue eyes which caused her some distress. She had to remind herself, again, of her own perception of time versus the actuality. "Of course you are." The pert reply came easily; it was probably best to keep conversation light.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Garrus asked with interest and without suspicion. Clearly he had some sort of personal confirmation that she was who she was…though Shepard couldn't think what that might be.

"Just bailing your ass out."

"Of course you are," he responded with the same inflection she had used earlier.

The conversation was completely facetious, but seemed to establish yet another connection between the two.

"Sit down before your fall down," Shepard suggested grimly, plopping down on the couch, which groaned under the weight.

Garrus dropped onto the seat wearily, (and this time it creaked ominously) tipping his head back. "I don't know how you got here, but I am _damn_ glad to see you."

"Same here. In fact, I'm recruiting again. What do you say we shoot the place up, go home, and have a long talk about 'what the hell?!', and you can listen to my spiel? I'll even say 'please'."

"Just like old times." Garrus chuckled, shaking his head. "I like those first two ideas. Then I'll probably end up volunteering for whatever it is you're up to." He pinned her with a beady gaze. "There's only one thing you'd claw your way back from being dead for."

Shepard's amiable expression clouded to dead seriousness. "Right in one. Unfortunately."

Garrus grimaced. "Killing mercs…isn't exactly _hard_ work, even on my own."

Shepard had the suspicion that this was not what he had meant to say, but she let it lie. "Let me guess: point and shoot, you're bound to hit something." Garrus looked startled, as though she'd taken a wisecrack out of his hands before he had time to finish shaping it. "I've _seen_ you shoot."

"So says the woman with a _shotgun_," Garrus returned amiably, a rusty, humorless smile playing about his mandibles.

"Uh huh. Meet Jacob Taylor and Miranda Lawson, Security Chief and XO, respectively." Shepard motioned to them. "Garrus." As if they needed her to tell them, she thought idly.

"That so?" Garrus frowned at them, mandibles pulled close to his jaw in contemplation. "Not really your normal crowd, are they?"

"They can't all be you."

"Are you going to promise me a long story?" Garrus asked idly, reaching for his rifle.

"I'll promise you the true story." It seemed important—to her, at least—to emphasize that she intended to tell the _truth_ (which would sound ludicrous to a rational mind) than to completely suppress some of the more uncomfortable facts about her existence.

"Even better and just what I expected you'd say." Garrus nodded for her to come with him to the window.

Shepard smiled wanly: it rarely felt so good to be predictable.


	70. Tandem

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

"Even better and just what I expected you'd say."Garrus headed for the window, knelt before it. It was the kind of thing Shepard would say—and right now, he was in a place where he would take any friend he could get.

Even one who was supposed to be dead.

"Sit-rep?" Shepard asked.

"Same as usual."

"So tell me," Shepard removed her rifle from her rack of weapons, "How'd you piss off all three of Omega's big players?"

Obviously Aria was placed in a different tier, according to Shepard's mental hierarchy. "Wasn't easy, I can tell you. I _really_ had to work at it." The words bought the images of dead faces forcibly to his mind. The gentle 'thunk' of Shepard dropping a lose fist against his shoulder—a comforting gesture—indicated she saw and understood the significance of the bodies.

"Well, I've got good news for you." Shepard announced as she squinted towards the other end of the bridge.

"Which is?"

"You still piss people off." Even Garrus, tired and worn as he was, had to chuckle wryly at this assessment. "Enough to get _all_ those egos working together to bring you down."

"Nice to see I haven't lost my touch. How about you? Any bright ideas for bad situations? You get into those a lot. Figured you might have insight."

"Iron sights," Shepard muttered.

"That's a new one," Garrus frowned.

"It's an _old_ one. There was this gunny…movement," Shepard motioned and Garrus brought his sniper rifle up for a better look. "…back in basic—had him again while I was still a two—and he used to say that you only use iron sights when you're in a bad place…or are showing off."

"So which is it, Shepard, are we in a bad spot or are you going to show off. Have a better look."

Garrus passed Shepard his rifle, allowing Shepard to take advantage of the scope. He knew she would understand the implicit trust of 'sharing' the rifle. Not just _anyone_ was allowed to handle such a personal item.

Shepard squeezed the trigger, grunted softly as the rifle kicked, but she dropped the mech slinking out of cover. "_That_ was showing off. _We're_ just in a tight spot. I hate this thing, it kicks like a mule—here, have it back."

"No hard feelings," Garrus addressed the rifle, "Shepard just doesn't appreciate decent firepower."

"…firepower…" an evil gleam came into Shepard's eyes.

"I know that look." That gleam, more than anything else so far, brought him a flicker of hope. He'd seen that look—and what usually transpired after it crossed Shepard's face.

"Do you?"

"You're going to burn someone's house down. I just got the place redecorated, Shepard."

"I'm _not_ burning _your_ house down." Shepard motioned to her cohorts—Jacob came to kneel beside her at the window, Miranda falling back, presumably to keep an eye on the ground floor.

"…no. A look like that? You're blowing it up." He meant it facetiously, but her next words explained something he had, until then forgotten.

The object around which that last group of mercs—the one Shepard and her cohorts had cut through—had clustered.

"Well, there _is _a bomb downstairs…"

"…and two biotics up here. I like." The question 'you didn't disarm it?!' came to him, but he bit it back. Shepard wouldn't leave something dangerous lying around where anyone could activate it. If it was still downstairs, she was confident no merc could get it reactivated. "I don't suppose you picked up any intel while you were over there?"

Shepard's smile increased several millimeters. "I've already got a present for the first wave. We'll save the bomb for the second. I didn't like the look of that krogan."

"Garm? He's a freak of nature…good way to spend a bomb." He'd like to see Garm try to regenerate after _that_. Even if he was a biotic…Shepard seemed to think the two with her were pretty good.

"Third wave could be a problem…but who knows? I'd kind of like to get out of here _before_ that third wave shows up."

"Who's first?" Garrus asked coolly, watching the bridge.

"Eclipse. Miranda, can you move that bomb? Someone's going to trip over it. Then I want you and Jacob to get on the ground floor and keep an eye on the entryway. If anything gets past Garrus and me…

"…or if you get bored waiting for something to get past me. And Shepard, of course," Garrus added hastily, winking at Shepard.

"Is he for real?" Jacob asked, dubiously.

Shepard smiled. "Don't worry—his aim is better when he shuts up."

"If you say so." Jacob shook his head.

"Don't worry about it, this is business as usual," Shepard assured him, a touch of solemnity behind the apparently easygoing words.

"Right. Happy hunting."

"That bridge has been a real life-saver," Garrus began once Jacob's and Miranda's footsteps retreated. "It funnels those witless enemies into scope, but it makes getting out hard."

"You don't have a back way out?"

"Had to seal them early on. My men…"

"I saw." Her voice said 'you don't need to say anything more, if you don't want to', which was lucky: he didn't want to talk about them. Not here. Not now. The pain was still too fresh—and just thinking about it made it worse. Maybe that was why he'd relied so heavily on trying to keep up the easy banter.

It gave him something to concentrate on.

"Hold still—I'm tapping into your radio," Shepard warned, her tone indicating she was startled that she hadn't done it earlier.

Garrus waited patiently—though he didn't actually _feel_ her do anything.

"Jacob, give me a mic test—I want to make sure Garrus is in."

"…I've got movement by the barricades…"

"Loud and clear…" Garrus shifted the scope to the left and let off a single shot, his target crumpling milliseconds later.

"Lucky shot," Shepard announced.

"There was nothing lucky about it, Shepard." Garrus purred.


	71. Us and Them

Miranda frowned at the bomb, still on the main floor, though shoved to one side so no one would trip on it. More to the point, so no one could shoot at it and trigger it. It was a crude piece of work but given the element of surprise (or the right target) it could be effective.

"What do you think?" Jacob asked, peering across the bridge, now hosting a trickle of mechs. The regular jerk and popping fizzle of the mechs showed that, whatever else, 'Archangel'—or Garrus, as Shepard knew him—was, he was hardly overrated.

Miranda, frowning, rewired the bomb. She wouldn't admit it, but she didn't think the Illusive Man would have honestly picked one of Shepard's old allies for the ground team, whatever he might say to the contrary. Familiar faces who _stayed on the ship_, yes. Familiar faces who would be effective should Shepard mutiny…not so much.

She would just have to make sure things continued going smoothly.

"Got one!" Jacob snickered, jerking two oncoming organics to the left and right off the bridge.

"_Lucky sweep_!" Garrus rumbled over the radio.

"Lucky my ass!" And, to prove his point, Jacob did it again.

"_Hmph. He's no Alenko, but he'll do._"

Shepard snickered softly. "_Miranda? How's that bomb coming?_"

"Rewired and ready. Where do you want it? Or should I just take out the bridge altogether?"

"_No, we don't want that,_" Garrus interrupted seriously. "_Then, the next thing you know, they'll break out something a little heavier than ground pound—" _Garrus swore colorfully.

"_Don't worry. That problem's going to take care of itself. Get your head down and get some juice or something while it does its thing. You look rough."_

"_I'm a turian. I have carapace. I'm _always _going to look a little rough."_

Miranda sidled up to Jacob's position, peering across the bridge (very carefully, as the heavy mech didn't distinguish friend from foe). "Do you see what I see?" Miranda asked, frowning.

"Depends. I can tell you what I _don't_ see: they're still playing each other, hoping 'Archangel'—or us, now—will whittle the others down." All three of them knew as much. The gangs had to know it, too, though their desire to kill Archangel was certainly the more important end goal.

"Exactly. Be ready for something other than a frontal assault. In fact…I'm starting to wonder if…" Miranda began.

Alarms began to blare.

"What the hell was that_?_" Miranda demanded, looking around for what had to be a counterattack.

"_Shit. They just breached the lower levels. I shut the safety shutters before this thing lifted off—"_

"_Kicked off."_

"_Point being, they had to use their brains sometime_…" Garrus retorted.

"_Hey, there's that sleazy little salarian…"_

"_Shit…" _

Miranda could hear the obvious conflict between wanting to secure the basement and shoot the salarian. She found herself grimly amused: Chambers would go crazy if Shepard came back with Garrus in tow, the general tone of conversation being 'can I keep him?'

"_Miranda: secure the ground floor. Garrus, stop shooting_."

Miranda had, by this time, located the stairs to the next level, her blue eyes darting about.

"_Stop—_"

"_Just _do _it!_" Shepard barked, loud enough to make everyone on that frequency flinch. "_Or 'don't do it', in this case_."

For a moment all action ceased: the mech stopped firing—clearly responding to a killcode—the salarian set a cautious foot on the bridge with a small cadre of supporters, and all firing stopped.

"What are your defenses down there?" Miranda demanded.

"_Safety shutters: three of them, all on a T-intersection._"

"Shepard, I want your bomb."

"_I didn't think you were serious about blowing this place up!"_ There was little concern about the building (or his own safety), just simple surprise that Shepard had another explosion-lover in tow.

Forget sealing three safety shutters, which were probably damaged from being reopened. If one could just collapse a hallway and use biotics to augment the damage…

"_Whatever you've got to do, Miranda. Hurry up—this is Blood Pack_…"

"I know. Jacob," Miranda jerked her head for him to follow.

"You're not worried the wrong part of the building might collapse?" Jacob frowned as Miranda deftly moved the bomb ahead of them.

"I'm not worried about Shepard and Garrus being unable to get down; I'm worried about Blood Pack being able to get up. Keep an eye on that window while I'm working." Miranda paused moving the bomb long enough to free up a hand to gesture to the window on the far side of the building: a window with a long drop under it. "Even krogan know enough to adapt a plan when things go wrong."

She based her assumption on the fact that, while coming up through the bowels of the building might have been a good idea while Garrus was alone and distracted by the Eclipse, it wasn't such a good idea now that he had reinforcements.

_BOOM_.

For a moment, Miranda didn't realize what made the sound. Her attention jumped away from the window and back to the bomb, which still hung innocently in the air on its cushion of dark energy.

"_Whoo_!" Garrus crowed, the sound mingling with Shepard's 'haha!'.

Miranda thought she could piece the string of events together: cut fire so that the Eclipse thought they'd clipped Garrus, then when the moment was right, Shepard either launched (or detonated a previously-launched) tech mine to short out and blow up the heavy mech.

Miranda positioned the bomb as the sounds of harsh voices and many feet hurried towards her. She stepped back, biotic barriers raised. At the first glimpse of a krogan, she tossed her own tech-mine at the bomb, which exploded a split second later, collapsing the hallway. With a grunt of effort—and a feeling of supreme satisfaction—she biotically wrenched as much of the crumbling concrete _down_ as she could, effectively sealing off the basement.

Shepard wasn't the only one who could work an explosion.


	72. Bullfight

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

"Shit!" Jacob grabbed Miranda by the arm and reflexively yanked her back.

Even Miranda could admit the swift action probably saved her life. The krogan that charged them, coming out of Miranda's blind spot, slammed headfirst into the wall.

The krogan moved somewhat dazedly after impact, making Jacob think it wasn't very experienced by krogan standards.

"Barrier!" Miranda barked, anger overriding the more understandable fear. She and Jacob stepped back, a biotic wall forming between the krogan and themselves.

"Shepard, we're bottled up!" Jacob announced flatly.

"_I take it that the bomb detonated successfully?" _

"And then Miranda pulled down half the wall on it. No one's getting up that way," Jacob affirmed.

"_Pulled down the _wall_?"_

Jacob did not append 'what was left of it', not when a smug smile tried to play along Miranda's mouth, even as the krogan got his bearings. He turned to leer at them, backing up for another charge. Miranda canted her head. "I want you to grab that thing's head. Hold it for me."

"Forget 'em!" a harsh voice, loud but low, snarled from just outside the window, causing the young krogan to turn. "Forget 'em! _I_. _Want_. _Archangel_!"

"You're about to get _very_ popular," Jacob announced as Shepard's head appeared over the balustrade on the second level.

"_That's Garm—he's a freak of nature!_" Garrus rumbled.

"Jacob, now," Miranda intoned, as the young krogan seemed caught between charging the barrier (and getting to the humans beyond) and obeying Garm.

Distraction cost the krogan the encounter: Jacob, obeying Miranda's directive, biotically seized the krogan's head in a bubble of dark energy—which confused it—before Miranda, with a grunt of effort, _pushed_ at the thing. Seeing what she was doing, Jacob wrenched the krogan's head counter to Miranda's push until an audible snap and scream ensued.

The krogan hit the ground, still alive, but with a snapped neck.

"_I'm not worried about _Garm," Shepard returned evenly. Anyone who knew her knew there was an unvoiced 'yet' appended to the statement. "_I just don't want to get swarmed_."

"_Worry_," Garrus responded, only half joking.

"_How are they getting in? I can't see._"

"Climbing equipment, through the big window," Miranda reported, leaning out of cover, now that the immediate threat had passed, in order to pick off a few mercenaries.

"Miranda, we clear the room, then you hold the window." Jacob reached into his web gear and freed his tactical knife. "We covered _this_ in basic."

It took a few moments to clear the room; all the while Garm rampaged topside, Shepard and Garrus putting up enough of a fight to keep him at bay. Miranda threw up the requested barrier, giving Jacob time to rush forward to the sill. "Shit."

They were not climbing up from below: they were climbing down from above. "Change of plans." Jacob gathered the cables thrown by the intruders in his hands. "On three, _pull_."

The combined effort paid off, the climbing rigs unable to take the strain of the biotic drag from below. The cables came free of the rigs, dropping several mercenaries into the void below.

"_Are we clear_?" Shepard shouted in Jacob's ear.

"_Clear, Commander_."

A moment later, apparently desperate to get some space between Garm and themselves, Shepard and Garrus both vaulted over the low wall that gave the upper floor an overlook of the main level. Both crumpled on impact with the floor.

Shepard seemed to bounce, a textbook PLF, fearlessly and flawlessly executed. Garrus performed similarly, with less grace but with confidence in his ability to land safely. Neither waited, peppering the upper level with suppressing fire. "Need a better plan!" Shepard barked as she, Garrus, Miranda, and Jacob knelt behind whatever cover they could take.

Shepard and Miranda, casting about the room for inspiration, caught the same answer to their difficulties before turning to one another, the light of 'a decent plan on the fly' in their faces.

"Window." They said it at exactly the same time.

"Handle it!" Shepard barked to Miranda.

"She's going to drop him out the _window?"_ Jacob didn't care that the 'she' of the sentence could have been either woman. In a less dangerous situation, the plan might have been comical.

"The fall's to keep him occupied. Shepard's going to blow his ass to pieces." The turian nodded to Shepard, who had the previously superfluous grenade launcher open and was pulling out grenades.

"'Archangel'. You've got company: Garm's here to see _you_." Shepard motioned Garrus to present a convenient target. Garm had, by this point, realized he had no help, but was enraged by the fact that things had not panned out.

Fortunately, krogan in a rage also threw caution to the winds.

It happened with a smoothness of coordination that bordered on textbook execution: Miranda and Jacob hunkered down in Garm's blind spot, behind the barriers nearest the ground floor entrance. Shepard inched her way around until she stood behind the staircase, near the blocked-off stairwell leading into the basement.

Garrus suddenly sprinted out into the open, moving ridiculously fast before vanishing behind one of the support pillars.

Garm didn't come down the stairs; he got halfway to them jumped over the railing, landing so sturdily on the ground that the tiles cracked from the impact.

He didn't hear Shepard slip up behind him, since Garrus started shouting abuse at him for that very reason. Garm didn't feel it, either, when Shepard stuck a cluster of grenades to his back, using omnigel to anchor them.

He charged halfway to Garrus' position. Garrus appeared, gave ground, firing a few well-placed shots as he did so. Suddenly, Garrus seemed to fold in and threw himself to one side, rolling out of the way.

Garm, moving too fast to turn direction quickly, suddenly found himself unable to stop, as a combined biotic field caught him and _pushed_ him forward, over the guardrail and out in the vast drop below.

From where she stood, Shepard remote detonated the tech-mine triggering mechanism.


	73. Halftime

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

If the grenades didn't kill Garm, the fall certainly would.

"You know," Garrus remarked to Shepard, "I had this guy dead to rights…

"And now he's _dead_ to everything," Shepard responded grimly. "Blue Suns left—let's get your stuff. It's getting a bit quiet for my liking."

Garrus nodded.

"How long do you think it'll take Tarak to realize Garm's dead?" Miranda asked, falling in beside Shepard.

"I dunno. Better question is 'how long before Tarak decides Garm has '_failed_?'"

"Good point." The three humans negotiated a path to the upper level, following Garrus. "How are you feeling?" Miranda asked.

"Out of shape. I've got a stitch in my side like you wouldn't believe," Shepard admitted with a shrug.

On closer inspection, Miranda found that Shepard was, in fact, favoring one side. "Keep this up," Miranda motioned to the damage inflicted on Garrus' headquarters since their arrival, "and that'll take care of itself."

Shepard stopped beside Garrus, motioning Jacob and Miranda to go on ahead. She waited in silence while Garrus made temporary peace with his situation; he surely knew his men wouldn't want him to die in a shithole like this on account of their dead bodies. Having lost friends in combat before, Shepard knew there were times when one just needed to keep one's opinions silent. The time for conversation and discussion would come later, if at all.

Knowing Garrus, it would be 'later'. Garrus was not good at keeping his problems quiet and to himself. Not if he had someone to hash them out with.

Or, so her memories indicated. She suffered a moment of mental disorientation that was more imagined than induced, a result of her sense of having 'lost' time.

"Garrus," she prompted gently when the time began to stretch, "you can't do any more for them." The words were gentle, loud enough that he would hear them but soft enough so he didn't have to acknowledge them as 'conversation'.

To her surprise he did answer her, as he came back to himself. "I know." He left it at that, but the lack of bristling reply or terse response meant something to Shepard.

Garrus suddenly nodded, took in a sniff of air that had a distinct sound of rearranging snot in it, then started off in a loping motion that hinted at aches in one leg or side.

She had to smile at the thought that Miranda and Jacob still looked comparatively fresh while she and Garrus looked like old soldiers getting past their prime. That would, to quote Miranda, 'take care of itself'.

She glanced at the wrecked room one more time, wishing she could get the _Normandy _in here to level it. It would be one way of burying the bodies, of making sure they weren't savaged or maltreated.

That sort of thing really did matter when one was looking at friends.

"How long have you been back?" Garrus asked, dragging a backpack out from under one bed.

"A little over a month," Shepard answered, settling on Garrus' bed, vaguely noticing it had an odd sort of covering on it. There were several of them arranged in similar fashion, but she wasn't sure what the item actually was. The mesh was too big to be a mosquito net. It _looked_ soft and supple, but when she tested the give in it, found the material to be quite durable, the kind of weave that toughened when pressure was exerted on it. The more pressure, the tighter the fibers in the mesh clung to one another.

"Fighting our way off that bridge is going to be killer," Garrus announced, bringing Shepard back to her situation. She suddenly had a keen sense that something was terribly wrong. Nothing had happened—yet—but something _should have. _"I wish your friend hadn't blown out that passage."

Shepard got to her feet, caught Miranda's eye. For a few minutes, Jacob and Miranda had both taken to looking out the window. Now, though, both stood to one side of the overlook facing the bridge.

"At least we're alive to think that." The sentiment reminded her of what the Council might have said about some of her efforts—particularly on Therum. 'You did the job to specs but why did you have to go and destroy everything in your path to do it?'

"I know that look: you're thinking about the Council," Garrus noted.

Shepard had to smile: he'd picked the thought right out of her head. It felt good to have someone around who knew her personally rather than out of a file. "Or the Illusive Man, these days. In this case, you're right."

"Which conversation?" Garrus asked, standing up with his pack over one shoulder. He glanced around the room, fixing it in his mind.

"You remember Therum?" Shepard asked, getting to her feet and motioning Miranda and Jacob to close in for a quick conference about how best to extract themselves.

Shepard liked the idea of having Hawthorne swing in to the far side of the building with the shuttle and just slipping out that way. Garrus wouldn't like that, but it was something to consider.

"I remember I wasn't _there_." He responded dryly. "That was a girls' day out, if I recall correctly."

Shepard nodded. Williams was with them, then. "And the dry heat was good for all of us. I never understood saunas—"

Shepard's words stopped as a faint whirring reached the teams' ears. For a moment, she and Garrus looked at one another.

Tarak, arriving in his gunship at the far end of the room, blasted the safety glass out of the window frame.

"I disabled that thing…" Garrus said nonsensically before he and Shepard both dove for cover.

Shepard gritted her teeth, wishing she'd just knifed the batarian the way she'd been trained to do. She was making mistakes, and could only hope she lived long enough not to make more.

And then hope her team didn't suffer for her lapse of practicality.


	74. Theory

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

It was a scene from her worst nightmares. No, it was something not even her worst nightmares could have conjured up. Craters appeared in Garrus' armor as the high-speed rounds of the gunship's smaller gun peppered him. Garrus hit the ground, one hand holding his sniper rifle by the barrel, the other arm flung over his unprotected head. With effort, the turian wriggled forward determinedly, counting on the suppressing fire from Shepard and her team.

Shepard took in a deep breath, even as she sent a spray of rounds peppering across the lower region of the gunship's windshield. "Jacob! Keep pressure on him! Keep the pressure on! Miranda, knock that thing into next we—" She never finished the word 'week'. She only had time to suck in a breath as the gunship stopped firing…

She knew, from the momentary stillness that Tarak had a firing solution for the big gun.

He had it, and he used it.

But not before Miranda, having acted on Shepard's unfinished command, sent a biotic _push _at the gunship, rocking it sideways.

The missile did not hit Garrus directly, but exploded just shy of his head.

"Garrus!" Shepard's voice cut over the peppering of gunfire, and the clunk of those rounds hitting the gunship. Horror tried to stop her mental processes from functioning, but desperation forced the cogs to continue turning. She fumbled to get the grenade launcher off her back, charging it with adrenaline-shaky fingers.

From beneath Garrus' prone form, thick blue blood pooled and crept across the floor. "Miranda! Jacob! Keep heat on the gunship! I've gotta get Garrus!" Tarak was a batarian, and a mercenary overlord (more or less). He would kill Garrus as quickly as possible, sparing no attention for anyone else until that one all-important objective was accomplished.

They were tenacious like that.

"Got it!" Jacob barked as Shepard let off one grenade, forcing Tarak to pull back—he had no way of knowing if it would explode in midair, and while it might or might not damage the hull the shockwave from the ordnance would mess with his aim.

Shepard abandoned the grenade launcher, flinging herself flat and wriggling along on her belly, just like they taught in basic. Rather than try to drag Garrus, she took advantage of Jacob having moved up to her former position (and appropriating her grenade launcher) to slide Garrus across the floor, getting onto her knees in order to use her shoulder and bent arm to do so. The low-to-the-ground position gave her leverage, but it also did not move him around as much or put undue pressure on joints as trying to drag him might.

The turian left a streak of blue blood on the floor, blood that ended up on Shepard's armor, filling her nose with the non-metallic smell of injured turian. In her mind's eye, images of Nihlus with the front of his face blown off from a bullet to the back of the head flickered disconcertingly.

There was nothing she could do, not while the bullets were still flying. Tarak had recovered from the unsteadiness caused by Miranda's push and was peppering the room again. Her position—while fine for shielding Garrus from view (even if the telltale smears on the floor indicated where he had gone)—was not a good one from which to fire.

She slipped around the furniture, catlike, working her way towards the wall. The thing felt thin as paper, only a few inches of duracrete and steel between her and exploding shells. "Jacob! Grenade launcher!"

Jacob biotically pitched it to her. She caught it, plucking it from its biotic conveyance cloud and charged it. She blessed the visor she opted for, instead of the full helmet, cuing it for thermal scan. The gunship flared like an explosion, its engine block white hot as it hovered and bobbed. Without anything to shoot at, Tarak was waiting.

His garbled shouts and taunts did not mean anything to her.

She cued her radio, taking a deep breath. "Can you two work around me?"

"Of course," Miranda answered with clipped promptness.

"Yeah, sure…"

"Here's what we're going to do: I'm going to pop out, and give him a couple grenades to suck on. Once he pulls back to avoid the ordnance, I want you two to grab that son of a bitch's airship—Miranda, you pull, Jacob, you push—and slam that sucker into the ground. Take out the bridge, or crash him in the lower levels I don't care."

Silence.

"Confirm orders!" Shepard barked; there was no time to marvel at crazy plans. She was sure of herself. Laws of physics still applied—sort of—to biotics. She remembered a conversation with Alenko (involving a datapad against which they both pushed, she manually, he biotically) about further intricacies of biotic usage. 'Advanced biotic theory'.

Her theory _now_ was if one biotic pulled and the other pushed at the same time that it would have the same effect as two people manually moving a stone, only without the limitations of positioning.

"Ready," Miranda answered.

"Right," Jacob nodded.

Shepard thinned her lips. "On three…one…" The gunship zoomed close again, and she watched it bob and dance like a curious bird of prey wondering where its enemy had gotten to. Within seconds he would launch another shell, to see if he could scare anyone up. "…two…" She toggled the timer on the launcher: a short fuse on these grenades…

Her finger slipped around the launch trigger as the gunship stabilized itself. "Three!"

She threw herself into view, launching grenades every third step. Tarak lurched the gunship back, the first exploding violently in front of the windshield.

She vanished again behind the other wall, her heart racing. She watched the heat signature through the wall, grenade launcher—and its last grenade—clutched in her hand.

It happened with the same efficiency it had in theory: with Miranda as the biotic powerhouse and Jacob reinforcing her, the gunship had no chance.

-J-

Author's Note:

Just to be clear: Shepard _did_ pull grenades in the last chapter, but she didn't use all of them, and like a practical person, she put the casing back on the weapon.


	75. In Flames

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

"Get out of the way, _get out of the way_!" Shepard's husky shout cut like the crack of a whip through the room. Dr. Chakwas, followed by two quickly-drafted crewmen, hurried into the shuttle bay carrying her emergency bag. "Doc!" Shepard was bloody to the elbows, holding packing according to Miranda's instructions.

"Garrus!" Dr. Chakwas recognized the turian without difficulty, despite his state. "I can't treat him here! Miranda, get back to the medbay, I need two pints of turian syntheblood as quickly as you can whip it up."

Miranda said nothing, merely grabbed a swab from Dr. Chakwas' bag, rubbed it against Shepard's hands to get a blood sample, then hurried off. "Jacob, if you'll mange the heavy lifting…Shepard!"

"I got him," Shepard took hold of Garrus' head, making sure it did not loll about. Her stomach squirmed. His brain was not leaking out of his skull, but she could see the damage was bad. She was not even sure he could hear what went on around him. "Come on, Garrus," Shepard hissed, trying not work herself into indignation to stave off the scream growing within her.

She had come back to find the galaxy turned upside down, to find everyone and everything had moved on without her. Yet here was Garrus, one thing that didn't change, bleeding out. "Come on, Garrus, or I swear I'll drag you back and kick your—"

"Shepard that's _not_ helping!" Dr. Chakwas snapped, before softening her tone as the elevator dinged. "Just hold his head…" she could not voice that Garrus would be all right, but she knew the turian was a fighter. If anyone could walk away from this…well, they would have to see. Being a fighter couldn't stave off death forever. Look at Shepard.

"I'm ready to hook him up!" Miranda barked, leaving Shepard to wonder if there was any field that Miranda did _not_ have training in.

Garrus seemed like so much meat and twisted tin on the medical table. Blue blood marked their path in little droplets on the floor. Shepard glanced down at her hands as Dr. Chakwas hooked Garrus up to the blue syntheblood. She knew what it was to have a teammate's blood on her hands, in more ways than one.

"Shepard, I need you to step out of here…" Dr. Chakwas was scrubbing up, as was Miranda, apparently standing by to assist.

"Can you do anything for him?" The question was for Miranda.

"I'm not a xenobiologist, Shepard, get out of here, you're underfoot." Miranda tied her mask on, before elbowing past Shepard.

"Come on, Commander, we've gotta let the docs handle this…" Jacob hesitantly took Shepard by the arm, just above her elbow.

"Get off my arm." Shepard's mouth dried out as Miranda began to swear under her breath as she and Dr. Chakwas struggled to get Garrus' armor off his neck.

"Jacob! Get her out of here!" Miranda barked, dropping a plate of Garrus' armor onto the ground before turning her attention to the underlay.

The turian seemed painfully diminished without his protective blue shell. Shepard knew turians were compact, built for speed, '_proto avis_', to quote Williams. She never thought about Garrus as being anything but a plated up, armored up wrecking ball of single-minded determination.

But now he was dying. The EKG screamed, just as hers had…

"Come on, Commander," Jacob did not let Shepard shake him off this time, but wrangled her towards the door.

Shepard did not fight, but dug her heels in, making the biotic work for every step he dragged her. They had not lost Garrus yet…but it seemed as though one of the few tenuous tethers of familiarity was fraying, the cords stretching one by one until finally…they'd snap and break…

…and no more Garrus. Then there were four: Tali, Liara, Wrex, and Alenko.

The door hissed closed, blocking her vision. "Let go of me." Jacob obeyed, immediately poised to lock down the medbay if he had to. There were benefits to being the security chief on a Cerberus vessel.

Now that she was out of the medbay, now she had the door between the slab of meat and metal that was once a good friend, Shepard found that she could not face going back in there. Even if she was permitted to return to lend a hand, she didn't think she could. It was the difference of remembering Garrus as she knew him, and remembering him the way she remembered her father.

The thought sickened her almost as much as the knowledge that her own lapse of judgment had landed said cohort in the medbay.

Shepard leaned on the door frame, heedless of the crewmen watching.

Jacob shifted from foot to foot. The sudden change in Shepard's mien worried him enough that he considered paging Chambers. This was her arena, after all…

Shepard turned, her expression putting the kibosh on that plan. She did not say anything, merely met his eyes before she strode over to the mess hall, picking a chair facing the medbay. She seemed to have forgotten her hands were bloody, just as she seemed to have forgotten she was carrying Garrus' rifle.

She only remembered the rifle when it got in her way as she tried to sit down. Disentangling the sling, she sat back, the sight of Garrus clutching for it like a child for a security blanket etched in her mind, even as she wrapped an arm around it, rather than setting it on the floor.

The world was burning down around her ears, in flames, and there was nothing she could do. She appreciated Jacob's presence, she truly did. More than that, she appreciated his silence, the lack of trying to get her to hope for the best. She did not want to hear it, to hear Garrus was a fighter, that he'd come through worse.

They said the same things about her, once upon a time, and now she was still wiping champagne from her hull.


	76. Fuss

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

The last thing he remembered was Shepard's horrified face looking down at him, the idea that this was her fault plain for anyone who had eyes to see it.

It was not what he wanted to be the last thing he ever saw.

Fortunately it wasn't: for a moment, time was still and she had that horrible look on her face. Then she snapped her chin up, and was properly Shepard, elbow deep in blue turian blood as she barked orders..or there was the snap of giving orders in her voice. The words were getting fuzzy...

-J-

He knew was alive because he was _in pain. _

_'The L3 implants are a lot safer—a lot fewer side effects.' _

_'That's why turians would have stayed with the L2s.'_

But it was not Alenko who smelled strongly of blood and medigel. Nor was it Alenko who biotically shifted him onto a stretcher. It was not the Mako into which they loaded him…

-J-

_'I'd offer you a lollipop on your way out, but…well, I suppose I'll have to stock up on dextro-friendly ones.' _

Memory and reality converged in the form of a firm but gentle hand just above his eyebrow ridge. If he was human, he might have said she was checking his temperature. A moment later the hand reappeared on one of his feet—now bare—testing to make sure his toes hadn't gone cold.

A classic sign of 'trouble' for an injured turian. Fortunately, and the haziness began to fade, his toes felt fine.

"Garrus, I swear you don' t do anything by halves." the voice was unmistakably Dr. Chakwas, though she was clearly talking to herself. She always made him feel like a kid with scuffed knees…but it was not a bad thing, even if it offended his pride. "You survived surgery, so do have the good graces to wake up."

She could make a hardened, pigheaded marine lie quiescent in the medbay with a carefully inflected word; she could do it to a hotheaded turian, too. It was one of the reasons she had been assigned to work with Shepard…

…but Shepard had already made it clear this was _not_ an Alliance venture, so why…?

Maybe waking up would be a good idea.

"I suppose I shouldn't ask you to do things I know you can't do. You always take such challenges so personally." She was nothing like _his_ mother…but it was nice to have someone worry when you were hurt.

His eyes batted open to the blazing lights of the medbay, which turned Dr. Chakwas into a shadow as she leaned over him.

"There you are." Dr. Chakwas moved so she was no longer backlit. "How are you feeling?" The question was accompanied by the sound of running water.

"Ugh." It was the best he could manage. Now that his eyes were open, his mind seemed to have turned up the volume knob labeled 'pain'.

"Yes, it will hurt for a while, and you're at risk for post-operative complications. You _don't_ do a thing by halves, Garrus." She helped him sit up—to his consternation—before wrapping his talons around a plastic cup with a plastic straw. It was only then he realized how thirsty he really was.

No, not _thirsty:_ his mouth and throat just felt dry. His stomach roiled uncomfortably, as though the pH balances of his innards were off. The water was nice, cool and soothing. "Never did…" the words hurt, as did the wobble of mandibles as he considered. "What…" one hand went to his jaw, found what felt like half his face and neck covered in bandages.

It took effort to stamp out the horror over waking up to find himself apparently maimed. He knew the damage couldn't possibly be as bad as felt...he just needed a mirror to assure himself that half his face was still firmly attached to his skull...

"We've had you in the shop for a while now. Skin grafts, a lot of syntheblood, some cybernetics…" she opened her mouth as though to say more but stopped. "A lot of technical work, but you shouldn't be too badly off, once the grafts begin to take in earnest. I also want you taking a broad-spectrum antibiotic. And these painkillers, until they're gone."

"But…" Shepard needed him. She came all the way to Omega to find Archangel, and the doc wanted to put him loopy?

"Shepard wouldn't take a man anywhere if that man took a missile to the face. There _are_ safer sports, Garrus."

He groaned as he smiled, and she fetched him a fresh cup of water. "You know me." He shrugged, slurping at the water.

Dr. Chakwas beamed at him, the way she would have done for Shepard, Williams or Alenko. "I do, indeed. And if I have you back here for anything other than post-op infection..." her voice held a warning that if he undid her good work she'd sedate him until _she_ felt he was fit for duty.

"I'll be the epitome of dutiful." And when she gave him a dubious look, he blew bubbles into his partially full cup through the straw. He'd discovered the trick of doing it without lips the time he and Williams had gotten plastered together.

Her mouth twitched, but she repressed the smile. "See that you do. Finish that, and one more for good measure. Then we'll see if you can get up and move around on your own. Shepard is up in the briefing room, worrying."

"She's good at that," Garrus rumbled around the straw before surrendering the glass. His eyes darted around for his armor. He refused to walk out of this medbay in a medical gown...

This time, Dr. Chakwas put a powder into the water that turned it vivid purple. "Electrolytes and immuno-boosters. Down the hatch."

Garrus tossed it down as best he could, gagging on the taste. Wincingly, he touched his face again. It was beginning to feel like he had a varren chewing on it...


	77. Pull Together

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Garrus bit the tip of his tongue, then took the plunge. "How bad is it?" he asked, looking Dr. Chakwas straight in the eye.

Dr. Chakwas' expression clouded. "I don't know how it is in turian culture but…human males with battle scars are often considered to be attractive."

Garrus' stomach swooped uncomfortably. Nervously, he scraped one talon against the back of his other hand. "Really bad?"

"You're alive, Garrus. I'd call that 'really good'." Nevertheless, Dr. Chakwas went over to her desk and, with the air of someone doing something she didn't want to do, retrieved a small mirror, which she brought back to him.

Garrus held it in one hand for a few moments, unsure of whether he really wanted to see this, now that he had the opportunity. He took a deep breath and then peered into it. He had to turn it this way and that, since it was a very small mirror and not meant to show an entire face all at once.

It was bad but, as he'd hoped, not as bad as it felt. Dr. Chakwas had neatly covered everything up with large swathes of white bandage.

"The bandages can come off in a few days. They're…aesthetic," Dr. Chakwas noted simply.

At least he still had both his eyes, and he didn't have any auditory ringing, so that was something . Still…he didn't consider himself a vain man, but he didn't like seeing so much of his face covered in bandages. "Back here?" he touched far back on his jaw—the actual site of inquiry probably too sore to be poked and prodded by curious fingers.

Dr. Chakwas sighed. "There was damage to the posterior mandibular extension, yes. Fortunately, the damage may be corrected, in future, with a few cosmetic surgeries."

Garrus took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. It sounded _really _bad when she put it like that... "My armor?"

"Not completely totaled, but I suggest—"

"If it's not totally fragged I don't want it replaced," Garrus interrupted, a little sharply. Then, guiltily, he opened his mouth to apologize, but Dr. Chakwas shook her head to indicate he didn't need to.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Garrus found himself wobbly, but able to maintain his balance. He dragged himself and his armor into the back room of the medbay…

…to discover that it was no longer the 'back room'.

"What the…?"

He flinched nervously as a little blue VI display popped up in his peripheral vision. "This is the AI core. Please be mindful of the hardware," it announced.

"This is the—" Garrus stopped.

"AI core. I am the enhanced defense intelligence. Colloquially: I am EDI."

Garrus felt his toes go cold and wiggled them a few times, wondering if it was a fear reaction or a 'damaged turian' reaction. The surge of warmth as he moved indicated 'fear'.

An AI? On Shepard's boat? She wouldn't stand for something like that…

"Garrus," Dr. Chakwas called. The door opened partway and her hand appeared. From it hung the clothes he'd worn under his armor. He took them, hurriedly pulled them on, then began to process of putting himself back in his armor.

Well, if the AI was here Shepard either couldn't or elected _not_ to carve it out. He'd worry about that later.

He swallowed as he examined the damage on his breastplate. That missile should have had his name on it. He'd never brushed that close to death before. It was kind of odd, now that he thought about it, to wake up here, on the Normandy, with Dr. Chakwas fussing over him…

He caught the tip of his tongue between his teeth, biting as hard as he dared. The pain indicated he was awake, that this was not some kind of pre-death hyper-vivid dream. No, plainly Shepard was not here to walk him into the afterlife.

Which meant he had some questions for her…

…but somehow how she got here didn't seem as important as why she was here. He had the feeling, given the presence of an AI aboard the Normandy—which had incontrovertibly been destroyed two years ago—it would be a complicated answer. A _long _and complicated answer.

The sense of 'turtling up' as he armored up—to use the humanism—made his face feel better, oddly enough. Maybe it was just having something heavier duty than his own carapace between him and the world.

Was this how humans felt about armor? Before now it had been, for him, just something he wore. There was something to the stereotype of turians liking to wear armor. Now, however, he found the heaviness of it comforting.

…here, in the privacy of the AI core, he permitted himself a shiver. That missile had been _close_, and now he had a permanent reminder to _keep his head down_.

With that, he swallowed, then made up his mind, very firmly, not to let the feeling of having been maimed settle into his psyche. The knowledge that Shepard would take the injury badly, as an insult to her ability to lead her team, helped.

He fingered the damage to his armor and it dawned on him that someone had taken the time to clean it and launder his clothes. There was no blood on either and everything was completely dry.

He frowned, his mandibles pulling close to his chin—he felt the muscles on the right side strain a little, tugging on the damaged region. He gently felt the injury, deciding that he hadn't 'lost' much. He wouldn't be _horribly_ lopsided…

He finished the last fastenings on his armor then reentered the medbay. "Good as new," he announced, though his tone lacked enthusiasm.

"Shepard will be _thrilled_."

"As long as she doesn't try to kiss me or anything weird like that. Human females and battle scars, you know." He winked at Dr. Chakwas. The idea of _the_ Commander Shepard, going gaga over a battle-scarred turian really was amusing.


	78. Fault

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Shepard dug her knuckles into her forehead. It was her fault. She hadn't had the courage to stab Cathka in the back. She saw the tool, laying there as if placed specifically for her use. Cathka had his back to her; there was no one to hear him shout. How could he shout with so many volts jumping through his body? It was crude, but he was an enemy, part of their support crew, bringing a weapon into the fray that anything short of a turret would be fairly ineffective.

Her most basic training for controlling a battlefield should have—it _had_—screamed at her to take him out effectively. But she'd balked.

He was a Blue Sun. That should have justified her. She didn't care about batarian lives; in this case there was no chance of finding hidden slaves. Not on Omega. If she had come to break up slavery—the thought had crossed her mind—all she had to do was walk down the street long enough. Something along the line Garrus indicated: _all I had to do was point my gun and shoot_.

All she had to do was walk down the street…

The thought had crossed her mind, though: without Cathka, the gunship would not have been ready. If she could have brought the thing down, Tarak would not have been able to let off that last missile…

That was conjecture. Only conjecture. And at the time, it had seemed like a very Rogers-esque thing to do. And if there was one thing she was sure of, it was that she did not want to be anything like the other woman…

…but, that nasty half of her mind, the part of her that felt betrayed by just about everyone she knew interjected, it was Garrus paying for that cowardice now. And if he died on the table…

_We don't do things fast, we do them right or we don't do them at all. _She had told him that once, and she had to wonder now if she was really doing it. Where was 'right' in all this? Omega was the wrongest place she ever set foot; a person could virtually dictate what was 'right' by comparison to the norm.

No. Her personal fears, her insecurities about the concept of 'self' since..coming back..had gotten the better of her and might have gotten an old friend killed. She couldn't let it happen again, so she twisted the dagger of guilt a few more times. The lesson had to stick...

Shepard squeezed her eyes shut until they ached. If he died on the table, it would be because she had failed him; she had failed to level the playing field. It was one thing to hack the heavy mech…why should one thug's death bother her? She'd killed many of them before now, with or without the old grudge. They were in the same category as geth to her. Mindless, soulless shotgun fodder. Enemies. Nothing more than moving targets.

But to shoot him in the back...or even jam the re-charging wrench into his armor…

And wasn't she at war, technically? Yes, it was with the Collectors and the Reapers but still…the interference with the mission was there, and she let it persist. She saw a threat and walked away from it. She exposed her team to deadly fire…and for what? So she could sleep at night? She wasn't sleeping well anyway, what was one more nightmare, one more second-guess about action taken?

She hadn't known it was Garrus at the time, part of her argued. At the time, Archangel was just another merc who happened to be on the wrong side of a bridge. Yes, he might have been a paragon (of sorts) to the people on Omega, (or a business-wrecking psychopath to the 'businessmen' there), but that did not mean a merc would sign on to a probably suicidal mission, whatever the Illusive Man's dossiers indicated.

If Garrus lived, she would have to reevaluate what she could and could not do, and still sleep at night. If he died, she would have to seriously reevaluate her stance on a good many things. She'd lost Jenkins to bad judgment and a failure to maintain control over her ground crew. She'd lost Williams to a lose-lose situation, and whatever logic she knew she had relied on, maybe a little to personal feelings. She'd lost the Council to secure Sovereign's defeat…

…but there it was. She'd sacrificed the few for the good of the whole already. She did not know the Council well, she had not liked them at all, she had had a duty to them as a Council Spectre, but she had sacrificed them for the sake of the billions of others out there, Council species or not.

It was a mistake to have let Cathka live…

Could she have incapacitated him only?

No. One did not leave a threat to get up later; he would only shoot you in the back. And Cathka had died anyway, with Tarak when the gunship went down. She thought, before crossing the bridge, Miranda might have done it herself, but no…

What did one enemy merc matter? The question kept coming back to her. If Miranda _had_ tried something while Shepard's back was turned, Shepard had to admit it would have been the right idea.

Every argument came back to the same point: she had worried too much about herself, had not worried enough about her team. In the midst of trying to reconcile herself to two years and a changed galaxy, she let fears that Jalissa Shepard had been replaced by a lookalike override her judgment.

She was careless, and she could not afford to let it happen again. Even with all the assurances that she really was her, that every precaution had been taken to make sure she was 'her' in body, mind, morals, ethics…she would have to blindly trust that this was not a fabrication on the part of Cerberus.


	79. Trust

"Commander?" Shepard looked up, her face pale, drawn, and tired. She looked as though twenty years had settled squarely on her shoulders. Jacob set a cup of coffee on the table before her, before leaning on the table. It surprised him she was willing to sit up here in the debriefing room, probably figuring that if she couldn't stand in some corner of the medbay, it didn't matter where she stood, or sat.

She'd certainly exhausted everything else she could do to keep busy, or that was his impression.

At least it was private in here, but not isolated or comfortable as the loft. "Thanks, Jacob." She took the coffee, but did not drink it, merely swirled it in the cup.

He fell back on what Miranda told him before directing him to take the news to Shepard. He was, Miranda announced before filling him in, 'a better bearer of mixed news'.

"We've done what we could for him, but that was a bad hit. The doc corrected with some surgical procedures, cybernetics, implants…some of the stuff Lazarus used on you."

She raised her eyes, encouraging him in cold steeliness to stop dancing around and answer the stupid question. He couldn't blame her.

Maybe Miranda ought to have done this after all. "Best we can tell is that he'll have full functionality. He'll be okay."

Those three words made it worth being someone's science experiment. Relief seeped into Shepard's posture, and she took a long swig of her scalding-hot coffee. "Best news I've had all frakkin' day. Thanks Jacob." And despite the blunt wording, the gratitude suffusing her tone softened them.

"Thank Miranda and Chakwas."

"Noted." Shepard jumped when, moments later, the door hissed open to admit…

"Shepard."

"Garrus!" She banged her knee, half-spilled her coffee—hissing as she bit down a stream of curses—and nearly jumped out of her skin. She did manage to get to her feet, however.

"_Tough_ son of a bitch!" Jacob meant it as a mix of compliment and unease, possibly wondering if _this_ turian might not have, krogan-like, a couple redundant internal systems. "Didn't think he'd be up yet."

Much less get free of Dr. Chakwas. "Hmph. It takes more than a twiddly little gunship to put this turian down."

"Thick plates and a hard head—I kept telling the old man it'd get me through a lot in life." After a brief moment, he cleared his throat and continued, "Nobody would give me a mirror. How bad is it? Really?" He moved to stand in front of Shepard, still keeping one discreet eye on Jacob.

"Hell, Garrus, you were always ugly. Slap a little more face paint on there and no one'll even notice."

"Ugh, dammit, don't make me laugh…my face is barely holding together as it is."

She had the distinct impression he was playing the events that got them here down for her benefit. While it didn't' absolve her of stupidity, it was good to know he didn't hold her solely responsible for getting him maimed.

Garrus cast Jacob another look before offhandedly adding, "Some women find facial scars attractive…mind you, most of those women are krogan."

Jacob intercepted the scrutiny, as well as the subtext that Shepard and Garrus wouldn't hold serious discussion in front of him. It showed when he excused himself promptly.

Garrus watched him leave, waiting until the door hissed. Shepard silently beckoned him to come closer. "I'm pretty sure they've got this room, and every room bugged," she announced. After a moment she cued her omnitool, but the look on her face told him she didn't expect any jamming program she had to work very well for long.

"Well, at least they won't catch you napping. I'm fine," he held up a hand to stop the impending question, "Frankly I'm more worried about you. I already met your AI, but _Cerberus_, Shepard?" It was not accusation, merely curiosity, needing to hear her reasons. Shepard always had reasons.

"Exactly why I need you, Garrus." Shepard blatantly dodged the question. "I really need someone I can trust…it's been two years, and everything's gone crazy…" Garrus still held her in that beady blue gaze. "Okay, look, I was _dead_, like really dead-dead." Nothing, neither judgment nor acceptance, merely a sense of pending decision. "And Cerberus resuscitated me, gave me a ship, told me 'kill the Collectors, you'll need a team'…and here we are. The short version."

"Bet the long version won't make much more sense…" As far-fetched as it sounded, though…well, a lot of what Shepard told the galaxy seemed far-fetched. Comparatively, this sounded about right. It made perfect sense in a fouled-up galaxy.

"No, it doesn't. They've got me walking straight into the dragon's lair…"

"You do realize this has _me_ walking straight into the dragon's lair, too?" He could not identify the sudden flash of emotion across her face, except to know it was out of character for the woman he remembered. He forced a smile, hoping her ability to read turian expressions (and his ability to use them) had not decreased. "Just like old times."

For a time they stood in semi-awkward silence. "Good to have you aboard, Garrus." Shepard clapped him on the shoulder, squishing an urge to hug the turian as she'd hugged Joker.

She despised being so touchy-feely. It wasn't Shepard. It wasn't acceptable for turians, either.

Even so, Garrus gave her shoulder a light punch. "I'll be ready when you need me."

She almost laughed.

"No, seriously," Garrus nodded encouragingly.

There was no way was she would let him off the ship until Dr. Chakwas gave him a clean bill of health. She trusted him with her life…but not to know his own limits.

"Laugh it up, Shepard. One of these days she's going to put you under medical orders and then…" he waved a finger.

"Payback's a bitch. I'll just have to watch my step."

"Do that. I'll find my way to the forward batteries, do some sneak and peek."


	80. Unexpected

Garrus dropped onto his cot in the belly of engineering. It was not the most glamorous billet, but it was his space and the Cerberus crew didn't have to think about a turian sharing the crew quarters.

His own motivations in seeking solitary sleeping arrangements were somewhat selfish: humans _snored_. Not like his own people did, a soft, resonant gurgle he had heard liked to a 'purr', but like a million lumbermacs* sawing on a million logs with crude serrated blades.

Sleeping in a dormitory of humans had introduced him to this fact and he had only one 'it could be worse' to balance them out with: he hadn't been sleeping in a dormitory full of batarians.

Krul could have woken the dead…

Garrus' mandibles stilled as he eased himself onto the cot. He'd better get used to that, to having thoughts about his now-dead squad reminding him that he was alive and they weren't. It would be easier if Shepard had taken him with her, plague be damned. If a missile couldn't kill him there was no way he'd drop for a cough.

Shepard was a pushover where Dr. Chakwas was concerned: the doctor said he 'should take it easy' and Shepard said 'okay, Doc'.

Human cots weren't meant to accommodate turians. A couple pillows and he could sleep on his side, but that was uncomfortable. So, for now, he let his fringe hang over the edge while trying to let the cot take most of his head's weight.

First chance he got he was going to get hold of a proper turian bunk for mobile posts. If any species understood 'military surplus' it was his own.

He closed his eyes, but they flickered open again. No sleep, then. He couldn't get his mind to shut down or even slow down. Maybe because he'd spent how many hours under the knife?

Gingerly he fingered the numb patch of his face before reminding himself that one's fingers couldn't feel much when one wore full armor. The idea of prying himself out of it, even if he had something to change into, was ridiculous.

He didn't want to give up his hard shell, his one real security…maimed and disfigured though it was.

Tap-tap. The sound was definitely real, the vaguely metallic sound of someone rapping on a bulkhead. Tap-tap. "Excuse me?" the soft call would not have woken him if he'd been asleep. The voice wasn't familiar in the slightest but had something of the same tentative nervousness Liara's had held when she'd first joined the Normandy.

"I'm still awake." He sat up, watched as boots, knees, then a whole person tiptoe down the stairs.

He didn't recognize her, found himself frowning rather fiercely.

"I'm sorry to bother you," the girl smiled engagingly—though the way she kept her distance on would have thought she expected him to bite. "But the Commander said you'd be down here."

"What do you want?" he tried not to sound belligerent, but he hadn't expected visitors until Shepard came back. He wished she hadn't felt it necessary to ally with the evil Dr. Chakwas. Didn't the doctor know people got better quicker if…properly motivated? Being shot at was _fantastic_ motivation…

…and he knew Omega.

"I'm Kelly," she smiled, then held out her hands. She had a square, rather thin, package which she held out as though determined to be sociable but equally determined not to crowd. "Yeoman Chambers—I'm the Commander's gofer."

Garrus eye ridges lowered. Gopher? Wasn't that…a rodent?

Kelly giggled—clearly she could read turian expressions. "No, not 'gopher'," she said, clearly aware of the most likely reason for the frown, "'gofer'—'gofer' coffee, 'gofer' reports. Or, in this case," she looked at the package she was holding, then seemed to decide he wasn't going to take it from her. She came down a few steps and set it on the lowest one. "Operative Lawson is a very good executive officer and Commander Shepard seems like the kind of woman who takes a genuine interest in her crew's welfare…but I think a couple details slipped their nets."

Now that she'd propped the package where he could see it—and the light wasn't bouncing off the plastic cover—he understood what was in the package.

A turian mobile billet kit. Garrus opened his mouth but repressed the obvious question.

"It is!" Kelly sat down on the stairs. "I thought it might be more comfortable for a turian colleague…I _can_ call you my colleague, can't I?" Dubiousness based on the nature of her affiliations showed.

Just like Liara. He'd felt mildly helpless against the asari's naiveté of how the galaxy worked and he felt that way again, confronted with the redheaded slip of a girl. "No hate for the alien?" he asked, bemused.

Kelly shook her head. "Believing that my own species can advance isn't the same as being xenophobic…but you don't _really_ want to discuss that kind of ideology now, do you?"

He did not. In fact, the idea of having a proper bunk to fall into made his eyelids heavy. "No, I guess not."

Kelly smiled, an open easy gesture. "If you want to, you can write down anything you need and I'll make sure the requisition forms are taken care of. It'll be faster if I do it and I'm sure you'd like to settle in _comfortably_ within a reasonable amount of time."

"Ah, the never-ending barrage of paperwork…"

Kelly giggled at this, then got to her feet as he slowly rose to his. "Well, I just wanted to say hello, make sure you could at least get a good night's sleep." From her pocket she produced a small datapad and a stylus which she set on the stairs before hurrying off, her feet tap-tapping softly as she left.

Garrus took hold of the sturdy parcel and tore it open.

Nice kid…better stay on the ship though. She had a big target on her chest and 'bullet fodder' stamped across her forehead.

-J-

Yes, he means 'lumberjacks'.


	81. Musing

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Cerberus Private Circulation DZ223-4619A

Presiding Officer: Lawson, Miranda R.

Presiding Specialist: Chambers, Kelly U.

Personnel Record for Normandy SR-2, Lazarus Cell

Subject: Preliminary analysis for Shepard, Jalissa A.

Despite obvious concerns for the patient's mental integrity, Commander Shepard seems to be adjusting well. However, her ability to achieve only limited progress will begin to take a toll on her before long. This is simply a result of her a-type personality. I do have concerns that, at some point, her desire to _make notable forward progress_ may compromise her natural caution. I will attempt to reinforce each 'brick in the wall' as possible to negate these 'getting nowhere' feelings.

I have a concern for Shepard's isolation: if we can acquire any of her original ground team I would advise doing so. She may have Mr. Moreau to get her from Point A to Point B, and Dr. Chakwas to patch her up after scuffles at Point B, but the fact remains that she still has a Cerberus-only ground team, and according to the current final short list of candidates will be surrounded by strangers.

Not to say that she cannot adapt, but peace of mind would be promoted by at least one familiar face on the ground team. That is my professional recommendation: find out what it would take to contact and secure the assistance of Tali'Zorah (since preliminary contact has been made) and make our best effort to get her on board.

My suggestion to allow Operative Lawson to retain Operative Taylor's assistance is helping on the count of acclimating Shepard to her new team: through repeated observation interaction, the Cerberus label put on Operative Taylor is rapidly beginning to deteriorate. I don't expect it to last much longer; she'll definitely trust him long before she trusts Operative Lawson.

(Who, as I was instructed to monitor for, is accepting her role as executive officer gracefully and with the perfectionist tendencies she is known for. At the very least there is armed neutrality between Shepard and Operative Lawson. I think this could, over time, become respect. For our purposes, respect might be even better than 'liking'.)

My own integration progresses well: at the very least Shepard knows my general function here (observing the emotional/mental state of the team). She does not seem to consider this fact as being one of much account. I don't think she really believes I can handle my secondary function or, if she does, simply thinks I'm still in the process of sloughing off 'book learning' while acquiring 'field experience'. Needless to say, I see no need to disabuse her of the notion.

I think I am beginning to see, firsthand, what makes Shepard such a fine leader. I cannot put it into words at this time, but I can _feel_ it in the general ambiance of the ship. I've been on Cerberus vessels before, but the SR-2 does not have the feel to it that these other ships did. There's a sort of tentative quiet confidence in the leadership, and a graceful acknowledgment of that confidence by the leadership in question. Given time, I think this crew will become formidable enough to deserve the title 'our best chance'.

Cerberus Private Circulation DZ223-4629A

Presiding Officer: Lawson, Miranda R.

Presiding Specialist: Chambers, Kelly U.

Personnel Record for Normandy SR-2, Lazarus Cell

Subject: Preliminary analysis for Vakarian, Garrus

As it turns out, the infamous mercenary Archangel—against whom I strongly advised my overseers on the grounds of being unpredictable, clearly on a self-destructive bent, and prone to be a destabilizing presence—is in actuality one Garrus Vakarian (C-Sec, later SR-1—see dossier for dates and durations). This turns out to be a mitigating factor, based on his familiarity with Commander Shepard and vice versa.

My concerns, however, are still very strong, and for that reason I am assigning a psychological risk factor of eight—elevated risk. Expect erratic behavior punctuated by periods of moodiness or antisocial tendencies. The Commander has been made aware that the turian is…troubled…but this was unnecessary. It's self-evident.

After consulting the profile compiled on Vakarian, I've come to the conclusion that his behavior shows no true aberrations, which leaves me hopeful for some form of recovery—though to what extent I can't say at this time. I will, of course, keep a close eye on him. As it stands, it is my recommendation to let things take their course, and repose trust in the Commander's ability to manage her crewmen.

An basic preliminary would identify Vakarian's major problem as having an unpredictable temper. A trained eye would spot, within moments, that the anger merely serves as a cover for _pain_—though the root cause remains a mystery to me. I will make the appropriate inquiries, see what I can dig up.

On a personal note, I would like to add that the psychological damage is, perhaps, more widespread than one might suspect after a cursory look. Unless he finds some sort of closure, can silence his own demons, it will be difficult for me to recommend to him any major responsibilities. A position of leadership, for instance, is not recommended but is likely, if he steps up as Shepard's right-hand man (by default since none of her other ground crew are available to her). It's difficult to look him in the eyes: there's a soul in there _screaming_…and he knows no one can do anything about it. Perhaps being back in Shepard's sphere of influence will be good for him, but I worry about the effects of Vakarian's condition on her.

Such things never affect the victim only.

In this case, I doubt anything could be more beneficial for both of them than to maintain a wait-and-see observational style: Vakarian will have at least one stabilizing element in his life, and Shepard will have something she can 'help with' in the short term. (Please refer to DZ223-4619A for full preliminary analysis.) Should prompting or steerage be required I will, of course, provide the necessary impetus.


	82. Shuffle the Deck

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

It was what he'd expected: eventually Admiral Hackett had called him to Arcturus for a face-to-face meeting about this Shepard doppelganger (or whatever it was). Sheffler struggled to maintain an objective viewpoint of the whole matter, and to not speculate. Speculation led to preconceived notions and if there was one thing Cerberus was good at, it was exploiting preconceived notions.

It was good to be a little paranoid where Cerberus was involved.

Which was why he was here, though he suspected—from the grim look on Hackett's face as he repeated his 'sales pitch'—the Admiral was not fully convinced that the plan of dangling on Shepard's teammate in front of her as bait to draw her into the open was a good one.

It sounded, Sheffler maintained, _much _worse than it actually was.

"Is it possible," Hackett asked grimly, "that you've been compromised by the nature of this problem? Cerberus would love to impair your function."

Sheffler knew he'd sounded rabid while making his original pitch. Damn. N7s were 'known' for being a bit clannish. They didn't like having to run one another down—a thing that did not occur often. If Sheffler stopped to think about it, he could feel a cold sensation, just a bit of one, in the pit of his stomach.

But if he paid attention to every cold sensation, or deep unease, he would never get anything done. And, as anyone who knew him would say, he was a man who got results.

"The previous arrangement seemed to be that, until I cracked a major cell, they'd just let me ricochet around," Sheffler responded as evenly as he could. He knew that, on at least one occasion, he'd been their garbage man. "I'd think this doppelganger's cell would count as a major one. But they aren't keeping their heads down, and that's odd. I'll exercise due caution." They must have a high opinion of their operative if Cerberus wanted him to chase her—as they seemed to.

"I'd like this to be a hoax, but I'm afraid certain evidence has come to light that it may not be. Not completely."

"Sir?" Sheffler stiffened. He _knew_ there had to be other reports. Still…the Alliance wasn't the Council. If it was Shepard, why not arrange to come back in? It was not as if she was helpless. It _had_ to be a hoax: what was the point of staying outside the Alliance's reach?

"We have reason to believe that Commander Shepard is alive and currently working with Cerberus." Hackett dropped Alenko's original after-action report on his desk before perching on the edge of the worktop, eying Sheffler grimly.

"…Do you think she's with them? I mean, really _with_ them?" The idea was hard to swallow. Head trauma patients often had changed personalities…maybe that was what this was? That it was almost Shepard but the brain stuff wasn't working right? Or maybe there was no memory…could they even do that?

With Cerberus one guess was as good as another.

"I didn't sign any infiltration orders," Hackett responded grimly. "You knew her well, didn't you?"

"Not particularly. She saved one of my men though, as you might remember. Cerberus took him after Akuze." His skin prickled and the scarring from the damage inflicted by the thresher maws seemed to tingle and burn with remembered pain. "Apart from that, not well, but I had great respect for her as a soldier."

"And as a Spectre?" Hackett asked almost genially.

"There was no one to compare her to." Sheffler did not frown but he wanted to: Hackett wasn't one to beat around the bush, even if he liked to be as certain of things as he could be. Was it the rather underhanded methodology of using a fellow serviceman as bait—which Hackett _had_ to understand from an objective view—that caused this stalling? Or was there more to it? Something of which he, Sheffler, was not aware?

Probably quite a lot he wasn't aware of, Sheffler thought grimly. He wasn't an admiral for a reason, and didn't need information not directly pertaining to his standing orders.

"At this point, and until I have less reproachable evidence, I would prefer to keep what we've discussed quiet."

Sheffler's stint with the Alliance was longstanding enough for him to know that _he_ was expected to keep quiet. Hackett, however, could share information wherever he felt it prudent and to whomsoever he chose. "Yes, sir."

"We have reason to believe that Cerberus has something to do with the missing colonies," Hackett continued. "Our eyewitness places Shepard—or her lookalike—at Freedom's Progress, the last one to be hit."

So, Hackett _was_ looking into the colonies being abducted. Some servicemen in Sheffler's unit were wondering why no one seemed to be doing that.

The fact remained that if Cerberus was involved in those disappearances, Shepard wouldn't be. End of story. Therefore, there was some other explanation.

"I want you to find Commander Alenko on the Citadel. Have your talk with him. Anderson doesn't like this idea, but I'm not slamming doors that might come in handy. I want Alenko to _volunteer_; Anderson will have a harder time turning the Commander down than he would you or I."

"I think I can do that." The modest wording hid the truth: Sheffler would have Alenko storming into Anderson's office, practically _demanding_ to be put on the project.

"If it is Shepard, she won't maintain a low profile, but she'll avoid contact with you if she thinks you're a direct threat."

"Do you _want_ me to be a direct threat?" Sheffler asked, without sarcasm. Clearly Hackett didn't want Shepard dragged back to Alliance custody by her hair.

Hackett considered. "Chase her down but don't engage. I want to be able to scoop her up whenever I deem it necessary, but I'm not willing to bring her in before I know what the hell is going on here."

The directive made Sheffler wonder what information he was missing.


	83. Ice Water

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

It was the kind of plague he would have admired, if it weren't killing off his district one sapient at a time. It was aggressive and efficient. It was bio-engineered, which posed a new battery of questions.

The batarian on the table gasped, then went slack, the four eyes clouding with death. "Call." Mordin sniffed reflexively, dragging the creeping odor of death into his damaged sinus.

"Damn it!" His assistant, Daniel, swore, thumping a fist on the medical table.

The stimulants must be getting to him; his reactions were becoming...erratic. Mordin glanced at the wall, upon which hung three battered date-time displays, one for Omega, one for the Citadel, and one for Sur'Kesh "Time of death twenty-two seventeen, Omega time. Need to remove body. Sanitize area. Not that sanitation matters," he added thoughtfully, peeling his contaminated gloves off. Lucky salarian fingers did not go 'pruny' like human and asari fingers. Might impair digit function. "Same plague. Still, no need to risk further infection."

The attention to detail mattered; it was what separated a professional from a hack.

"How can…" Daniel's voice cracked with fatigue, and he rubbed his forehead with his forearm, since his gloves were filthy. "Can't…shouldn't we do something for him?" He motioned to the dead batarian.

Mordin turned to look over his shoulder, but did not stop washing his hands. "Why?" When Daniel looked as though someone had cracked him across the face with a riot baton, Mordin continued, "Batarian belief in afterlife involves soul leaving body through eyes. Eyes intact, soul freed: further treatment of corpse unimportant by cultural standards." He turned off the re-recycled water. How long could the independent water purification equipment hold out? It had always been cheap, but he hadn't been dealing with a plague before, which required more water usage than the usual day-to-day business.

What he wouldn't give for a fresh, sweet drink from home.

Mordin did not take his face mask off, but changed his gloves in a businesslike fashion as he dismissed the notion of fresh water and comfort items.

Of course, is original line of thought continued, to _remove_ a batarian's eyes was another matter completely—an insulting matter, or one that could effectively label oneself as too dangerous or insane for others to bother with. It was always good to know how to fight an enemy; even better to know how to play on what an enemy believed.

"I can't believe we lost _another_ one!" Daniel snapped.

"More patients than time," Mordin agreed, then sniffed. "Impossible to save everyone. Go crazy if you try. So, save who you can, move on. Save more if we hurry. Remove corpse, please."

"Doctor!" Daniel came around the table. Needed to find the lad something to counter stimulant-triggered aggression. He needed all hands functional. "We shouldn't just wait for people to come to us. We should be out there, get medicine to them that way."

"No. Pointless."

"_I_ could go!" Daniel protested.

Mordin blinked several times, then sniffed. "Already more than enough patients here!" He jabbed a finger into the operating table. "Can't risk combat with vorcha or gangs. Better to save those who make effort to come to us." Natural selection at work: strong live, those with best chance to survive. It maximized effectiveness of available resources.

"Doctor?"

Both Mordin and Daniel turned as Sonia, one of the assistants, came tiptoeing in, looking frightened.

Frightened? Couldn't be plague, then. Sickness did not disturb Sonia; deaths disturbed her, but did not frighten.

"There are Blue Suns outside," she said calmly, for all the fear in her expression, "They—they want all the humans to come out."

Mordin sighed. Delays, too many delays. "Expected as much. Losing to vorcha. Need to establish dominance. Will speak with them." He pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and, from beneath the operating table, produced a pistol, which he charged calmly. "Daniel, Sonia, remove corpse, get next patient. Plenty more to save."

Mordin exhaled as he walked through the clinic to the entryway. A small, haggard-looking band of Blue Suns stood in a semicircle around the entryway. Stupid of them: never a good way to cover a doorway. Unprofessional. Inefficient.

Six batarians, all armed, all snarling about humans and plague-bringers. Ridiculous: just because asymptomatic did not necessarily imply species was a carrier. More likely vorcha a carrier; immunity did not mean absence of bacteria or virus, immunity merely meant no physiological reaction to contaminant.

Why were humans immune? Vorcha expected to be immune, but why humans? Physiologically weak compared to batarians. Heavy bone density not much use when fighting microbes.

"Will say it once: no time for posturing. Plague expanding rapidly, lots of patients. Please leave premises, unless bringing in sick." It didn't do to simply start shooting people out of hand. Not that he expected anything short of a firefight, but he was in the mood to give them the option.

Death had taken its quota and more today.

Mordin sighed, rubbing his right sinus the way a human might pinch the bridge of the nose when looking for patience. He could and had accurately predicted the way this conversation would go. Oh well, if it had to be bloody, then he should make sure it was the only altercation there would be.

Sometimes the best messages were conveyed without words.

Which was useful, since he was not sure some of these thugs could read.

-J-

"Shepard, you see that?" Jacob demanded, pointing at a cluster of oozy orbs hanging from strings. The bunch was suspended conspicuously near the entryway, just beyond the array of bodies sprawled on the street, their heads pointed to the clinic, feet pointed away.

She couldn't and hadn't missed it. Knowing exactly what they were and what they meant in the non-literal sense, there was no need to comment on them.

"Are those…" Miranda began, disgusted but not sickened.

"Eyes." Shepard finished abstractedly, her gaze rooted for a moment to the grotesque cluster. "Someone's sending a _very_ strong message."

-J-

Author's Notes:

The thing about batarians and eyes is mentioned explicitly on the Wiki. Also, forgive the temporal jump from Mordin prior to Shepard's arrival to Shepard's actual arrival. We do go _back_ to follow Shepard for a bit.


	84. Wasteland

The place raised the hair on Shepard's neck; the turian guard at the entryway was right about waiting for the plague to run its course. It wouldn't take long, if what she saw was any indicator.

It was unnaturally quiet, though occasionally punctuated by shouts or distant gunfire. Smoke hung in clouds near the ceiling and cast a misty veil across the landscape. Shepard's own steps seemed too loud, the filth of a slum district cracking, grinding, or squishing underfoot.

"How long do you think it takes this virus to run, start to finish?" Jacob's slightly muffled voice asked—muffled from her rebreather.

They were taking no chances: anything as nasty as this plague seemed to be—given descriptions from outside the district—was probably nasty enough to mutate or something. That was how Shepard's logic ran, so rebreathers all around.

"Place's been under lockdown for a little over four days. First case anyone paid attention to was six days ago," Miranda responded.

Shepard was glad her rebreather protected her from the _smell. _When dealing with contagions, especially in space, there were limited means for doing so. In this case—and which was most popular—were mass burnings, which added the smell of charring flesh to the smoke.

The reek of burnt flesh always gave her a deep sense of unease and a sort of nausea that lurked in the dark corners of her mind, like a monster under a bed.

"A week or ten days," Jacob summed up. "Can't take long to kill you, once you've got it. They've had time to start—and stop—burning the dead."

It was true, Shepard knew long before she followed his pointing finger. In a side street, in the middle of the street, stood a large pyre. Someone, for some reason best known to themselves, had tried to put it out, for the smoke billowed sullenly, and the flames lurked within the structure.

A few streets down, another pyre stood, but it was unlit, the bodies covered in sodden rags soaked in an accelerant. Bodies lay scattered about.

Shepard got down on one knee, examining the still form of a man about her own age. "Vorcha. See the marks?" There were claw marks, as if left by some scrabbling thing, on his chest and face. There was also a bite on his shoulder, the flesh beneath his dingy gray shirt discolored.

Clearly, whoever said the human mouth was one of the filthiest places in the galaxy never saw a vorcha. Or got bit by one.

"The guard said the vorcha were trying to take over. Humans paying attention to the dead and not their surroundings…" Jacob trailed off, shaking his head.

"No. Not this time." Miranda held up a pistol, recovered from another body. "They were getting ready to bunker down. Or go out on patrol, see if they could do anything. Those two look like they were disarmed." She frowned at the weapon, then tossed it into the pyre. "Post mortem."

It made sense. There was safety in numbers, and chances were that when this massacre occurred the vorcha hadn't begun aggressively taking over this part of the district.

Shepard refrained from voiding her inner thoughts: _I hate plague zones_.

After all, no one liked them.

…Although, and it sounded horrible to think so, Shepard much preferred the plague zone to something like Freedom's Progress. Plague and the associated problems she could cope with.

They began to see more dead bodies and fewer pyres; sometimes the bodies were stacked up, but mote to get them out of the way than to prepare them for burning.

"What if this salarian's sick?" Jacob asked.

Judging by the look she shared with Miranda, it was a question both of them had wanted to avoid. "Doubtful," Miranda said briskly.

"Aria gave the impression that a little old thing like a plague wouldn't cause him more than a minor inconvenience. I've met STG before," though never one of their medics, "give him a ten minute head start and he'll give you an answer, implementations scheme, and cleanup duty roster in about thirty. On a bad day." A bit of an exaggeration, but it sounded relatively reasonable.

"'A little old thing like a plague,'" Jacob repeated, bemused. "Never worked with STG before. They good?"

Shepard gave a wry laugh. "Burned Saren's house down." The thought came with a pinprick of conscience over what else had occurred on that mission, but the old wound didn't hurt for long.

"I read the report," Miranda responded, "pity he wasn't in there when you did."

Shepard stopped scanning her surroundings in order to sort out her opinion on that statement. Finally, she hefted her shotgun back up to her shoulder. "He fixed it in the end."

She was not justifying a single thing the turian had done; it was…professional courtesy.

Because he'd died like a turian, blotting out his former deeds in the most permanent way they had. He'd stood aside so she could do their job, fulfill their communal, purpose.

Galactic security, at any cost.

No, she hadn't liked him, wouldn't have readily forgiven him if he'd been taken prisoner, say…but he'd had her respect, and he'd died with it. It was more than some could say.

Miranda and Jacob must have sensed a touchy subject—or at least a complicated one—for silence fell over the small unit. Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—the next street corner brought them within earshot of what sounded like a massive firefight.

Three streets down, they came upon an all-out engagement between the Blue Suns and the vorcha.

"Fighting for territory. Let's just loop them, let them sort their own shit out," Jacob suggested.

Shepard pulled up the district map on her omnitool, pinpointing their location with regards to Dr. Solus' clinic. "I like that idea. Saves time and ammo." She would have liked taking out two birds with one stone, make Omega a somewhat safer place, but the mission had to come first.


	85. Cooked

Beta-read by Saberlin.

Author's Note: There will be quite a bit of perspective shift; I tried to delineate the changes neatly.

-J-

"They're crazy!" Miranda snarled, dropping behind a heavy barrier wall just in time. Vorcha were a little crazy to begin with: ravenous eaters, bred like rabbits, intergalactic pests. As far as she was concerned, barely sapient.

Giving them a gun was bad enough (though their temperaments did not allow for excellent marksmen). Give them a rocket launcher and it was pretty bad—rocket launchers usually had targeting or tracking tech normal weapons didn't.

Give them a flamethrower and 'worst case' fell short of describing them, but only just.

Sweat trickled down her skin freely, as flames spewed overhead. The barrier blackened and smoked with the smell of burning concrete, though it prevented her from taking the brunt of the fiery spray. Her biotic barrier was strong, but she would rather not find out how effective it was against a flamethrower.

Heat suffused her face as cinders drifted down from above. Irritation at the whole situation began to bubble up, burning through the veil of fear that stemmed from an inborn survival instinct. All she needed was a moment of cease-fire…

...literally.

-J-

Shepard was ahead of the game. She wanted Garrus and Alenko, but she had Miranda and Jacob—she would just have to make do. Jacob was not what she was used to, but he was still a biotic and a soldier; she was the one who would need to adapt.

And she'd do it.

Vorcha were not rocket scientists (who else would call their heavy weapons 'specialists' the 'boom squad'?) but they were not as stupid as Miranda might have one believe. They were smarter than husks, but fought with similar tactics, weight of numbers and explosions.

Still, she was sure a vorcha bite would fester or rot with terrifying speed, but that was neither here nor there.

However, despite the threat of bites, weight of numbers, and marginal intelligence, Shepard was comforted. She loved it when her opponents used flamethrowers. Or she could _learn_ to, depending on how this next bit went…

" Jacob!" She wrapped four tech mines in medical gauze, lobbing the packet to Jacob. She knew she should save them, but what good was it if they were incinerated first?

-J-

She had a _really_ good arm. No telling Shepard she 'threw like a girl'. If she had aimed for his face, he would have known about it, Jacob mused as he caught it. She was a soldier's soldier, through and through. He unwound the hastily tied gauze and examined the mines. Very simplistic: just a button to arm it and throw.

Shepard's mouth pursed in a 'phh' that no ear ever heard, but her two fingered indication for him to biotically throw the mines was clear. Obviously she wanted no confusion. "Got it!" He had an advantage over Shepard in this regard, since he did not rely on a physical throwing arm. He armed one of the mines, threw it, and _pushed_ it to land amongst the vorcha.

Several stopped, peering at the innocuous object suddenly in their midst. It did not _look _like a grenade, and tech mines usually had lights as well as a haptic component.

-J-

The packet of mines gave off a resonant boom, causing the vorcha to panic at the unexpected shockwave and noise. Those closest were thrown back a meter or so.

He was not the only one to shout approval of the explosion. Shepard's certainly gave a whoop as she pitched one of her own mines before dropping back to safety.

Jacob had to wonder if Shepard had not meant the over-the-top explosion for shock value to begin with. There was no obviously lethal damage, and the smoke that gushed from it seemed to serve no real purpose.

The second mine—Shepard's—exploded a moment later, the electrical surge overloading the nearest vorcha's weapons. The overloading surge into the rocket launchers caused their ordinance to ignite.

Things snowballed from there: as the rocket launchers exploded, sending shrapnel everywhere, the hot projectiles cut into the flame-throwers' fuel tanks, causing them to combust.

The combustion of so much fuel all at once was like setting off a bomb, which cascaded into a very literal firestorm as the remaining flamethrowers ignited, under the heat and continued shrapnel.

-J-

There it was, Miranda thought, Shepard's profile (and reputation) in action: if she couldn't talk it down she would blow it up. A little dramatic, but certainly applicable. Miranda made a mental tic on her checklist of things to watch for.

She peered around her cover, then sent a few of the more injured vorcha flying to one side, killing them instantly. She smirked at the overall efficiency of the encounter; efficient and expedient.

"Hit them again!" Shepard called, more as encouragement than as an actual directive.

-J-

"Whoo! Take _that_!" Jacob cheered. _This_ was one of the things he had missed most: not being under fire, but blowing things up. It was the best part of Alliance life, and from the grin on Shepard's face, she thought so too. Doubtless Miranda was bean counting too hard to enjoy the show, but that was just her way. If she wanted to know what she had missed, she would ask.

It was a grade-A explosion, and all with one little tech mine. The galactic ball was definitely in good hands.

-J-

"Hang on!" Shepard reached for the tactical cloak. She kept forgetting she had it with her, but the need to maneuver unseen, for a little while at least, brought its presence to the forefront of her mind.

Vanishing, she sprinted forward, marveling at how weird it was not to be able to see herself as she ran. Sliding to cover she peered around in the hazy smoke and burning remnants of bodies and small puddles of diluted fuel—diluted with what she could not guess.

"Clear!" She rose, sliding over the barrier to prod one body with her boot. The stiff, blackened corpse disintegrating into a heap, mostly cinders. Vorcha flambé. Disgusting. "These things are _cooked_."


	86. Accord

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Shepard moved into the room from which the salarian voice came to find the businesslike doctor giving rapid instructions to a somewhat overwhelmed (and trying to hide the fact) assistant. Without ceasing to relay his unhurried but copious list of instructions, the salarian glanced at the entering team of militants, and produced a heavy pistol from beneath the table by which he stood. He set it warningly down on the table, one three-fingered hand on it.

Shepard had to smile at this: a show of arms was probably a wise act around here.

Urgent business or not, she did not interrupt him. She had no doubt that this doctor could punch a person full of holes with only a momentary lapse of speech.

She waited until the doctor finished speaking, moving aside to let the harassed-looking assistant out of the room. The salarian blinked at her as she moved towards the table, then rasied the hand not resting on the pistol, his omnitool flaring.

"Professor Solus?" Shepard stopped where the assistant had stood, Miranda and Jacob closing ranks to block the door.

"Don't recognize you from area." The omnitool shut off, and the salarian gave Shepard his full attention. "Too well armed to be refugees, no mercenary uniform." His hand did not relax on the gun, in fact, his fingers curled slyly around the weapon, as though expecting an ambush but not willing to make a preemptive strike.

Cautious yet practical. Shepard could see why the Illusive Man wanted him, and that was without knowing much about the good doctor's professional qualifications.

"Quarantine still in effect," Dr. Solus continued in that brisk, methodical way, "here for something else…for vorcha? Unlikely, vorcha a symptom, not a cause…"

A symptom thinned by recent events, though the doctor could probably surmise as much. Also, Shepard thought grimly, he sounded as though he could go on like this all day. "Dr. Solus, I'm Commander Shepard, and I came down here to find you."

"You have found me," Dr. Solus answered blandly, though he gave Miranda and Jacob a dubious look. The hand on the weapon remained in place, as though the possibility that they were hired guns was in the forepart of his mind, though not in his speech.

"I'm on a critical mission and I need your help."

"Mission? What mission?" The question seemed to pop out reflexively, before the doctor shook his head, continuing almost without a pause for breath, "No, no, no no no," Dr. Solus waved his free hand in a negating motion. "Too busy, clinic understaffed. Plague spreading too fast." He sniffed hard, rubbing one sinus with his free hand, "Who sent you?"

He changed topics so quickly, that Shepard barely caught herself before she said, unthinkingly, 'Cerberus'. It was uncomfortable, being on the opposite end of one of her own tricks. "I'm currently working with a privately-funded covert organization…" She did not want him to feel it necessary to try using that pistol, preferring to avoid flying bullets. Her faith in her shield was not absolute. "…that supports certain human interests." The words nearly choked her.

"Yet have interest in plague." Dr. Solus eyed her, an almost knowing smile curling the corners of his thin mouth. "Doesn't affect humans, yet human-centric interests? Few human groups would know me, equipment suggests military origin…"

It was at this point that Shepard realized the cogitation was at least partly for her benefit, an insight into how the salarian's thought processes worked. Presumably someone, at some point, had learned to share the twisty tunnels of his logic…perhaps as a defense against misunderstandings when he whipped out some blunt phrase to be misinterpreted as attitude or sarcasm.

"…Terra Firma too unstable…"

Shepard grit her teeth: Terra Firma was only a little better than Cerberus.

"…only one option." He sniffed again, this time thoughtfully, "Cerberus sent you. Unexpected."

Shepard's eyes slid to the weapon still beneath Dr. Solus' hand. "I'm hoping we won't need those. Not for each other, anyway," she said mildly.

Dr. Solus shrugged his thin shoulders. "Hope is good, but practicality should never be overlooked. Would prefer no shooting in the clinic. Too messy—have enough troubles." He sniffed again. "And patients."

"That sounds good to me."

The doctor's fingers relaxed marginally, but not completely. "So, what interest does Cerberus have in a salarian doctor?"

"The Collectors are abducting human colonies—entire _colonies,_ in the plural," Shepard reinforced. "We're going to stop them." No 'ifs', 'ands' or 'buts'.

"Ambitious project. And interesting…this plague? Not natural. _Engineered_."

"I see your logic…is that possible?" Shepard's brow crinkled.

"Anything is possible: ask 'is that probable?' and may get a different answer. Would say probability is high—Collectors one of the only ones with technology to design it," the doctor responded briskly.

The soldier and the scientist eyed one another speculatively, calculatingly.

"What do you need from us?" Shepard motioned with her head to her team.

"Already have cure: problem lies in dispersal. Take cure to environmental control systems and release it into air. Sick breathe cure, cure does its work…then time will come to find a new project. Yours might be interesting."

Shepard had to appreciate the shifty cunning in not formally answering or committing to anything. She wouldn't commit to anything openly either—this was a professional agreement in its purest form, the contract was the need for armed force, the signatures hinged on the dispersal of the cure.

Very practical.

"It's in vorcha territory, isn't it?" Shepard asked, glancing back at her cohorts. All three knew there was no way they had seen the bulk of the vorcha forces. Everything to this point was simply outlying turf.

"Of course. Would be too simple, otherwise…"

A hiss and several clunks made everyone look up.

"What the hell was that?" Miranda demanded sharply, abandoning her post by the door to move into the room.

Shepard looked at ventilation ducts that no longer pushed drafts of fresher air into the room. "Fans just shut off."


	87. Clouded

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

It was the most terrifying day of Daniel's life, and he knew it would stick with him like a birthmark for the rest of his life. Even now, as he scuttled back to Dr. Solus' clinic, a sort of airy delirium made his head spin.

He couldn't understand how things had gone so badly so fast! One minute, he was on a mission to do what Dr. Solus wouldn't—distribute the cure, take the precious substance and do what was necessary…

…then he was accosted, kidnapped, had a gun put in his face, then to his head, was turned into a hostage…then was set free without harm to himself.

And the trio of humans who ended up calling the shots had looked more than capable of mopping up all the batarians present without allowing harm to come to him. It was staggering to see such a state of neutrality: none of the three had really cared whether they started shooting or not, as long as they got what they wanted, in the end.

Daniel shuddered inwardly, dodged a pile of rags that he knew had once been a living person.

He really had thought the woman in charge was going to turn around and kill the batarians as they walked away, make a clean job of things. If he hadn't seen the satchel that the one man on the team carried, he wouldn't have believed a word they said about working with Dr. Solus.

Spreading the cure? Armed and armored to the teeth? Where did they think they were?

The district was rough but…but people were desperate.

Sweat trickled down Daniel's neck as he re-thought his disparagement of guns and armor. Vorcha traveled in packs…and the local gangs had been causing trouble. Dr. Solus had dealt with that, Daniel supposed, though he coudn't imagine how.

Then again, Dr. Solus was a great man, a brilliant man. Why someone of that caliber would come here, to Omega, to the metaphorical east of east, to set up a clinic in the slums when he could probably have had any position he wanted elsewhere...

…it was staggering. Humbling. Puzzling…but very, very good for the district.

The smells of fire and cooking flesh made him shiver…until he realized the bodies among which he wound his way were not the bodies of civilians. They were Blood Pack, mostly vorcha but no small number of krogan.

He stopped to regard one of the dead hulks, the evidences of violence everywhere. The nasal cavity was smashed in—none of the commandos who had rescued him looked strong enough to do that!—clear evidences of incendiary tech use and…well, he'd seen bullet holes before, and someone was using serious firepower. Specialized weapons.

Daniel shuddered, picked up his pace. Was it wrong to admire the amount of devastation the three-man team left in their wake? There was evidence of biotics at work, husks of vorcha—charred to blackened ruins by their own flamethrowers' fuel tanks exploding—and every so often a pile of what had once been organic matter. Blood leaked from so many bodies in neglected puddles. One or two of the dead faces he caught sight of seemed shocked, as though they had not fully registered a fatal wound before crossing over.

He shuddered again. He'd always found krogan intimidating, but to see the great hulks scattered about like punctuation in a clinical write-up was…unsettling. It also brought home the amount of force and determination it had taken the commandos to make it as far as they had; to deliver the cure, they had carved their way with effective, ruthless efficiency through most of the district. He couldn't help but think they must have met resistance from the Blue Suns at one point or another…

…and it left him feeling woozy. Three humans taking on what were virtually armies? Even compromised, the Blue Suns were no mean opponents…and vorcha were totally immune, unimpaired, numerous.

He did not think for that this willingness to slaughter their way through the district was motivated by altruism—in fact, he was surprised at Dr. Solus for trusting mercenaries.

His head began to hurt as adrenaline continued pumping into his bloodstream. He had to admit, in a secluded corner of his mind, that perhaps he did the unnamed mercenaries a disservice: look how far _he _had gotten…but he'd done it without a gun. He was a _doctor_, it was his job to save lives, to repair hurts…

…it was hard to see the other side of the coin, those who dealt out damage he couldn't quantify—even in a good cause...

Was it too much to want a good cause not to require so much bloodshed? Was it…naive…to think that everyone wanted to be cured, that a cure should be sped along by the citizens living in the district? It was their lives under threat, after all…

-J-

Daniel staggered into the clinic and nearly knocked into a gurney with a dead batarian on it, cloudy eyes staring at the ceiling. A cold sweat of fear and shock stood out on his skin, making him feel clammy as he dodged and darted his way back to where he heard Dr. Solus' voice calmly giving orders.

"Doctor!"

"Daniel." Dr. Solus blinked, then nodded as though, with lightning speed, he had recalculated his entire situation. "You're back."

Daniel poured out his story to Dr. Solus, who took in the whole misadventure with grave attention. Daniel was careful to tell it quickly, knowing that Dr. Solus was not fond of wasting time when there was a crisis.

Plague constituted a 'crisis' in anyone's books.

"Doctor…" Daniel began again, wondering if now was the time for debates on ethics…or even a brief discussion of ethics.

"Not to worry. Shepard more than capable. Please help administer cure. Too many sick, not enough hands with syringes."

The clouds of fear, doubt, and the disadvantage at which his situation in the slums put him began fading as normalcy was restored.


	88. Wait

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

He couldn't decide if these soldiers were insanely trusting or devilishly clever. Not that it mattered—too much work, not enough hands.

Nevertheless, he transferred the discreet preliminary scan he'd taken during their conversation into the nearest terminal for cross reference with available data. If that was someone wearing Shepard's face, he would deal with it: attempts to lure him off on false pretenses not unheard-of.

If it was Shepard…medical miracle. Worth studying.

He did not keep glancing up at the fans as several of his helpers did. He would start worrying when he started getting dizzy—otherwise, work, work, work. Too much to do.

Fifteen minutes—they should be about halfway there.

"Assistance please—large patient." Salarians were not meant for heavy lifting. It had caused problems before now, but luckily some of the help was better-equipped to convey the sick—or in this case the dead—from point A to point B.

Thirty minutes—should be arriving at environmental plant controls.

The air was beginning to get thick, but it would still take several hours before they began losing people to asphyxia. The fires in the district would cause major problems if unchecked, pulling oxygen from the atmosphere to fuel themselves as they had since the ventilation system went down.

"Sir," one of his assistants, a rather young woman, almost tiptoed up to him, her voice very quiet, "sir, some of the patients are beginning to worry."

Given the way she was sweating, she was beginning to worry, too.

He patted her shoulder reassuringly, wishing Daniel would return. He couldn't expect Shepard and her unit to stop and look for him, but all the help possible was needed right now. "Not to worry: have best available team working on it. Won't be long."

He hoped not, though vorcha were excellent at wasting other people's time. Had to be vorcha—Blue Suns not that insane. He would have to check and see if he had treatments for vorcha bites available—might not get through armor plates, but not all parts of body were covered by armor.

He'd seen more than his fair share of torn-off ears.

Thirty five minutes—probably still dealing with enemy resistance. Would be foolish to expect to waltz into plant and restart circulation fans. He wished he could convey this to his patients. The ambiance of fear of suffocation—even though there was plenty (to his way of thinking) of time for Shepard and her unit to restore normalcy—was not good for the ill.

"Doctor!" Daniel came rushing in, looking shaken but otherwise unharmed.

"Daniel. You're back." A combination of observation and a way to get Daniel to explain his lapse of judgment and how he got back.

Just as expected: Shepard made a detour. From the sound of it, lucky chance; apparently Shepard had the gift of being in the right place at the right time.

Forty minutes—she was probably fighting her way to the fans.

"Doctor…" Daniel began slowly, glancing around the back room of the clinic.

"Not to worry. Shepard more than capable." If it really was Shepard. A light blinked on his console, indicating the scan had finished processing. It had been blinking at him for some time now, but he had other things on his mind—and in his hands. "Please help administer cure? Too many sick, not enough hands with syringes." Not that anyone used actual syringes anymore—even this clinic was better supplied than that.

Speaking of hands, syringes, and the need of the former…

Fifty minutes: couldn't expect Shepard and her crew back before an hour elapsed. He began to wish they _would_ come back. He still wasn't worried—he was a scientist, had worked with STG. Had learned how to suppress worry until last possible minute.

Unfortunately, nerves led to shaky hands; it pained him to watch his assistants begin to need to try twice to administer the cure.

Abruptly, the fans kicked on, sending eddies of cool air through the clinic and the rest of the district.

Hour and five minutes. Not bad.

The sudden change of tension in the air—the reduction of it to a level consistent with the crisis of plague unleashed—was almost palpable.

Would be good for the help; easier minds meant steadier hands. Better by far to have only one crisis to deal with, rather than two.

"Doctor," one of the assistants from the front desk came trotting back, holding up a portable radio. "For you, sir."

Ah—he knew who this had to be. Very efficient, this Shepard. Very efficient, good attention o detail—he hadn't noticed her take the clinic's communication frequency. Not that he'd been expecting her to. "Thank you. Yes?" He suspected he knew who it was.

"_It's Shepard_." She sounded out of breath and spoke too loudly—probably still had gunshots ringing in her ears. "_We can all breathe again_."

Bad joke, but appropriate."Good; glad to hear it. Please come back to clinic—we'll talk. Too much to do to stand around chatting."

"_Will do, Doctor_."

The connection severed, leaving Dr. Solus to give the handset back to the assistant. "Thank you." With that, he strode over to his terminal, cuing the results of his scan of Shepard. One hundred percent match to other available records—definitely Shepard, not an imposter.

Interesting. Definitely Shepard, definitely a medical miracle. Would be good to study—but discreetly. Wouldn't want to offend. Only now could he turn his attention to other such possibilities—benefit of being a salarian, lots of mental power and rapid switches between topics.

Going after the Collectors—ambitious project. Would certainly need good science—how else to combat the unknown? He wiped the records of his search before shutting down the terminal. It was a big project; he looked forward to being a part of it.

Besides: plague wiped out, no need for him. Always need for the clinic, general urban problems never went away, but Daniel could handle that.

Most likely. Luckily, not feasible to take mechs on intergalactic Collector hunt. Would have to stay here.


	89. Chances

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

"I should have killed that batarian…" Shepard snarled unexpectedly, her tone bitter, "the re-charging wrench was _right there_…I shouldn't have choked."

"Well, you haven't choked since," came the surprising reassurance from behind Miranda's cup of tea. It was late, and Shepard had found Miranda drinking tea at one of the mess hall tables, despite the hour.

"Have you seen Garrus lately?"

"What? You think killing that batarian would have stopped him getting hurt?" Miranda watched Shepard. She never intended to bring this up, but since the Commander was in a sharing mood…why not?

"Yes. I do."

"Well, you'd be wrong." She finished her tea, setting the empty cup on the table.

Shepard's glare would have flash-frozen water.

"You'd be wrong because Cathka _was_ dead. I did it. Wrinkle in my sock, remember?"

Shepard's expression slid off her face like sludge off a window.

"I wasn't going to let a gunship open fire on you if I could stop it, now was I? I told you already, Shepard: my job is to make sure you succeed." Miranda waited, wondering if Shepard was going to snarl about ethics. "Whatever it takes."

Shepard did no such thing. In fact, she surprised Miranda. "Thank you. It doesn't make me feel better….but thank you, Miranda."

Miranda did not squirm, but she wanted to. She had not expected thanks, mostly because she was doing her job, but partly because Shepard had distinct views of 'right' and 'wrong'. Or maybe she, Miranda, had oversimplified something that was infinitely more complicated.

Most of the major events in Shepard's career pointed to someone who always took the high road, however painful…but was it really that way? She let the Council die…but that was to save the trillions who would die if the Reapers hit the galaxy at unawares. She saved the rachni, knowing what they were, what they'd done…but Shepard wasn't a fool. If she was already regretting not having taken out an obvious enemy…why would she unleash a galactic menace?

"Shepard, I want to ask you something." Hadn't Shepard said before that it was one thing to know a person on paper, but another to know them as a person? Second-hand accounts held a vast amount of information but they also lacked certain insights. Shepard lifted her eyes, looking tired, but not as distressed as she had earlier. "Why'd you let the rachni queen go?"

"You want the PR reason or the real reason?"

"If you're feeling chatty, both."

For a long moment the two women regarded one another. Finally Shepard shrugged before leaning on the table. "PR reason: I'm not going to push the button and enact genocide. I don't even approve of the genophage." Not that she saw many other alternatives…but what the so-called brilliant salarians forgot to take into account was that krogan lived to fight, and therefore were killing each other faster than they could breed. Goodness knew she'd pruned the population during her career.

She had not been quite so sympathetic before getting to know Wrex.

"Real reason?" Miranda prompted, when Shepard faded into silence.

"I think…" Shepard bit her lip, then ran both hands through her hair, dredging up rusty memories. Another glance at Miranda, and she steeled herself to tell the full truth, supposition and all. "She said something about disrupted…no, _discordance_…" it had seemed so important at the time, seemed to explain so much; she had to use the right words. "Songs the color of oily shadows, a tone from space hushing their voices. It forced the singers to resonate with its own sour yellow note."

"You think they were indoctrinated? That the Reapers were manipulating the rachni?" At any other time, if it was anyone else, she might have asked what left field spawned _that_ conclusion. But, this was Shepard…and Shepard was the leading Reapers-fighter at this point in time.

Like in the old, very old, Western films…only with hyper-advanced machines and without horses.

"Not just the rachni, the _galaxy_. Sovereign…" Shepard stopped. She had not spoken much of this to anyone. She had not shared her suspicious about the Reaper-rachni connection.

Of course, Alenko and Liara were smart enough to put two and two together…they knew what she knew at the time (barring the vision from the beacon). But in the wake of those events, the topic of possible indoctrination never surfaced for in-depth discussion.

She had, of course, written after-action reports, but those did not ask for personal suppositions. Just facts.

That facts-only approach was going to let the Reapers win with only one blow.

Shepard's thought, which had dwindled into nothing, chilled Miranda, though she could not say why. It was a deep-seated sense of an ugly truth lurking just beyond sight. "I know about the Reapers too, Shepard." This new information made her uneasy. No longer did Shepard's sudden complex dichotomy of logic puzzle her, now she had tripped over something neither she nor anyone she knew knew.

The possible hand behind the Rachni Wars made Miranda wonder how many times the Reapers had influenced events in such a fashion. The thought was frightening.

"I know…it's just weird when suddenly someone _doesn't_ think you're crazy." Of course it was weird. Someone finally agreed that she wasn't crazy.

"Sovereign said the Reapers manipulated us, shuffled the galaxy to progress along the paths it—they—desired. The rachni wars brought the krogan onto the galactic scene. You prune a plant to make it stronger. Maybe that's what it was all about, in the end."

"If she hadn't mentioned these…oily songs, or whatever they were…would you have pushed the button?"

Shepard looked at the table. "I don't know. Maybe. Quite a few people thought I should have…but I think I made the right call. We haven't seen rachni overrunning the galaxy in the past two years, now have we?" But the question was rhetorical.

"You think you made allies?"

"I don't know how interstellar cockroaches think, Miranda. I'm not sure I even know how other humans think, sometimes."


	90. Draw

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

"Commander Shepard?"

"Yes EDI?" Shepard jerked awake, having fallen asleep at her desk. The drugs from Dr. Chakwas sat unopened in their little bottle, with the doctor's addition '_just in case'_ scribbled on the label. Dr. Chakwas knew Shepard hated sleep-inducing drugs, so the dosage was the minimum effective…but Shepard still did not want to use them.

But she was considering it.

Her mind kept replaying old dreams, dreams which were disconcerting if not always frightening. Twice the night before she woke up, realizing the sound that woke her was her own voice, but she was not sure what she had said or to whom she thought she was saying it.

Cipher dreams were bad, the more vivid replays of the contents of the Prothean beacon were the worst, as they had always been. The beacon's replay was too vivid, too cutting.

Fortunately, it was not often she had more than one in a night. Three maximum, but those occasions she could count on one hand, and all involved unusually strong stressors.

"Yeoman Chambers would like a word with you, if you're disposed."

Shepard rolled her eyes, wondering—not for the first time—what a kid like Chambers was doing on this boat, and why she had not sent that kid back to the Illusive Man and asked for a grown up crewman to take her place. She did not _want_ to deal with Chambers' wide-eyed enthusiasm or earnest, eager-to-please, killing sweetness.

Chambers could give you cavities. There was no way for Shepard to fight it without feeling as though she was kicking a puppy.

"Yeah, tell her to come on in." She hit the switch on Alenko's photo to turn it off, and deactivated the motion sensor. _That_ was private; she did not feel like sharing, and did not want to have 'girl talks' about guys with Kelly Chambers. Or anyone else.

The door hissed open, admitting soft footsteps. If Shepard had thought to check her clock, she would have found it was not so late as she believed it was.

"Sit down." Shepard did not turn around, but she did not need to. Chambers appeared in her peripheral vision, sitting down as instructed. "What can I do for you, Chambers?" She could never remember to call her Kelly. She usually used people's surnames if possible, a long-standing practice a psychologist unwisely called 'a desire to create barriers between yourself and your fellow humans'.

She had laughed, and told him 'try being a soldier, then come talk to me'. It had nothing to do with keeping people at arm's length—not in the way he meant it at least. Given names indicated closeness, surnames had, for her, a teammate-ish feel.

Otherwise she would simply call a person by rank. _That_ would have been 'creating barriers between herself and her fellow humans'.

"I take it you're still not sleeping well?"

"Did I miss a bug in here?" She would have to work on that. She did not think she could _find_ them—that was not her function—but she could jam them, certainly.

Chambers giggled, giving her head a small shake setting her red hair swinging. "No, no. I can tell…nightmares, isn't it?" To Shepard's deadpan, she shrugged, "You're a trauma patient, Shepard. All those events on Mindoir, at that young age? Then the Blitz? You've suffered mental insult by alien technology on two occasions. You also died. _Anyone_ would have nightmares. Lesser people would have cracked a long time ago. But not you."

Chambers reminded her of Liara at that moment of obvious admiration of mental fortitude.

She hadn't liked it then and she didn't like it now. "I'm not having this conversation with you, or anyone else." Shepard did not snap, but she felt like doing so. It was easy to forget Chambers was a trained psychologist, even if that was not her formal function.

"I'm not asking you to. I figure you'd come to me if you wanted to talk. But I am here about a similar topic. Here." She held out a piece of paper, rolled like a scroll.

"Kinda antiquated," Shepard took it and the stylus accompanying it, frowning at both.

"Maybe, but you don't get the same results using tech. I want you to try sketching out your nightmares. Just, fill up the page, little stuff, big stuff, the written word…whatever's up here when you wake up." Chambers tapped her temple.

"I can't even draw _stick_ _figures."_ Shepard tried to hand the rolled-up paper back.

"That actually makes it easier. Help get it out of your head and make it...tangible. Maybe it might even help you find sense. It's not a matter of art, or concentration, it's a matter of putting it where you can see it while you're awake. Just…think about it. Try it for a couple nights."

"Does that stuff _ever_ work?" Psychology was not something with which Shepard was familiar, except as something to avoid.

"They're your dreams and your drawings, Commander. You'd have to tell me. I'll just let you work on getting some sleep. Goodnight." With that, Chambers got up, saluted smartly, and left the room.

Shepard eyed the paper and stylus askance. _Did_ that stuff ever work?

-J-

Six hours later, she sat bolt upright in bed, tangled in her blanket. Her hands shook, cold sweat stood out on her skin. Freeing herself from her blanket, heart pounding, mind convinced there was something to be afraid of, she got up.

She palmed the lights to full brightness, sat down at her desk, pulled on the paper so a stretch of it lay before her, and began to scribble. If she had been any sort of artist, she might have found the results on the paper gruesome, but the lack of skill paid off. In fact, by the time she threw the pen down, much of the horror had faded, as though even attempting to draw it out had forced the morass out of her head and onto the paper.


	91. Enemy

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

"You're playing like an amateur!" Garrus threw down his cards helplessly as Shepard, again, lost a hand. "Call it a night already, Shepard." Shepard had never been notable for playing card games well, but this was ridiculous.

"Sorry." She dropped the cards, scooting back to lean against the wall, her mind clearly not all in the room.

Garrus frowned at her. She was not…_distracted_—she was only 'distracted' if she could not switch from at-ease to firefight-ready at the drop of a hat. Still, she was obviously mulling _something_ over. "You've been moping for a couple days now. Did something happen on Omega?" It was a pisshole, of course, but it was also filled with Shepard's least favorite species.

Shepard shook her head, running a hand through her hair. She missed ther long tresses, even if the Alliance had strict regulations about how she could wear it (or, more accurately, how she could _not _wear it while in uniform or on duty). "I'm not _moping_. Just…thinking." She thought she had no illusions left, that everything that came before waking up on that operating table had burned away.

The other day proved this was not so; she did not know how to feel about it.

"Meaning of life?"

"When we went to get Mordin out of the slums, I…uh…had a run-in with a batarian."

"Bloody?" Why should a batarian worry her? She could kill one in her sleep—ice them like cakes, to coin Butler's phrase.

"No." Shepard's preoccupation cracked as she gave voice to the source. "I saved him…or bought him enough time to live until we got the cure pumping through the airways." Was it the same thing?

"So what?"

"You know what I think about batarians." Garrus nodded. "It's just…strange to hear the same things said about us…humans."

_'Human nobility. I didn't know such a thing existed_.'

Garrus gathered up the cards, eyes fixed on Shepard. "Normally you wouldn't care who said what about you…or your species."

"I know. Saw him again today. I went down the clinic to check on Daniel for Mordin. You know how the Professor gets…" Shepard shrugged.

Garrus nodded vigorously as he shuffled the deck. "I do know." Mordin was crazy, but 'crazy' was pretty normal around here.

Shepard scooted forward, accepting a new hand of cards.

Some conversations benefited from something to occupy the hands and this seemed to be one of them. It would relieve Dr. Chakwas to no end to know Shepard was not bottling everything up, as she was wont to do. Garrus wished there was someone else here more adept in dealing with such confidences. Tali, maybe. Then again, if Shepard wanted sympathy, or a pat on the back, she would have to go talk to Chambers.

Of course, Shepard would never discuss anything seriously with Chambers. She did not know why that kid was on this boat, and did not trust her to maintain patient confidentiality. Not when everything filtered to Miranda, then to the Illusive Man.

The best Garrus himself could do was consider what she said and, if asked for an opinion, supply one. Not necessarily the one she might want to hear, but she knew that was the risk she took in sharing deep thoughts.

"Saw that same batarian while I was down there. Apparently he's doing fetch-and-carry type stuff for the clinic. Gainful employment, Daniel said. Apparently the batarian showed up just after the crisis started alleviating. He's mean, blunt, a little rough around the edges but he works hard. A fair day's work for a fair day's pay."

"Why's that bothering you, Shepard? I thought you liked seeing people haul themselves out of the muck." Granted, she might feel differently about batarians, but if that was so she would not be so…moody. Shepard did not usually _get_ moody. She had too much on her plate to sink into that sort of quagmire.

"Because I looked into the face of an enemy and saw the very people I'm trying to save." Shepard's words came out with sharp edges as she raised her eyes from her cards. "It's unsettling." Finally, she had the words to express it. It _would_ take Garrus to help her find them.

Garrus _wished_ Tali was here. Better yet: he wished Williams was here. Or, last on the list, Alenko. "…so…you can't hate them now, is that it?" What would happen to him if his hatred for Sidonis just…up and vanished? Or if someone else got to the little slug before he did?

He shuddered, suddenly appreciating in some measure _why_ Shepard felt so disconcerted. Different circumstances? Maybe. But he could appreciate having something that was part of the everyday order of things suddenly jerked out of the picture.

It left a hole.

"I trained myself not to hate them years ago." Shepard pulled a card from the deck. What a process _that_ had been. It saved her, she nodded to herself, from becoming another Rogers. The galaxy needed another Rogers like it needed another Saren. "I thought I didn't have much left from my, uh, previous life…" Good way to put it. "…I keep finding pieces I've still got, but only as they're flaking off." She hoped this was comprehensible; she could phrase it no better.

"They're not all aiming-to-be-decent folk, Shepard." There, that was as truthful and reassuring as he could manage. He was not sure what response she was looking for. Part of him doubted _she_ knew what she was looking for, that all this was simply an uncomfortable puzzle to logic over for a time before discarding it as unimportant.

"I know…it just makes it harder to lump them in with geth, mindless mechanical things. At this rate," she put down a winning hand, "I'll probably find out the geth aren't all happy with the state of the galaxy and want to pitch in to help."

Garrus gave a snicker, partly glad they were 'playing for peanuts'. That was a good hand. "That'll be the day…"


	92. Favor

Beta-read by Saberlin.

Author's Note: Okay. I've been kicking this around for a couple of weeks, and I'm finally going to do it. I feel that I'm getting into a rut as far as prompts go, so I turn to you, my readers. The story's in no danger, but I'd appreciate your input. Feel free to leave any word prompts you'd like to suggest in a review or, which might be better, in a PM, if you're interested in participating. It's up to you.

-J-

Dresden Forbes groaned as the light on his communication unit blinked insistently at him. He would have ignored this, except the display indicated the call came along an encrypted channel. On closer investigation he didn't recognize it. "Ugh. It's Forbes."

"Well look at you," Forbes' jaw dropped as he gaped at the visual display, "Dresdon Forbes." She peered at his rank tags. "I'm impressed…but then, you were well motivated."

Shepard was enjoying the shock value of her call. She looked awful, with her face seemingly rotting on the bones, orange lights showing beneath the ruined skin, but he knew that look. If anyone else wore it, it would have been patronizing. When she wore it, she was examining something she had made, like a sculptor admiring her own work.

"You look like shit, ma'am." It was all he could think of to say since, technically, he shouldn't have been saying anything to her at all.

He didn't _see _dead people!

She chuckled, fiddling with a stylus in one hand. "I need a favor."

"You have the bad grace to let the galaxy think you're _dead,_ just when they need you most, and you want to ask me for _help?"_ But it was so classically Shepard to do just that…well, perhaps not the 'letting the galaxy think she was dead' part.

She arched her eyebrows. "You don't believe me, then. About the Reapers, I mean."

Forbes closed his eyes—definitely Shepard, always dodging issues. "I don't know _what_ to believe, Commander. You've never lied to me….but it _is_ better to be safe than sorry. What happened?"

"I was clinically dead, resuscitated, and spent the better part of two years in a coma." She put the stylus down. "I swear I'm not asking you for anything that can get you in trouble. I wouldn't do that."

Forbes sighed. It was not like Shepard to lie, not when things were important; that was one reason he was willing to go along with the idea of bracing for a potential invasion. If she did not truly believe, with absolute certainty, she would not have raised so much fuss over it.

He never believed the rumors that she had finally gone crazy. She had baggage, sure…but somehow, it was impossible for anyone who knew her, who really knew her, to believe she could go crazy. Shepard did not believe in procrastinating, why start going crazy now?

"What do you need?"

"I need to find my old crew—just _find_ them, no contact. I'm being…stonewalled."

"You can find _me_ but you can't find them?" Forbes rolled his eyes. "I thought you'd want something tough: most of them are with Major Robbins, on the _Reykjavik_. I think the Alliance wanted to keep your supporters in one place. I was on the _Reykjavik _before I got scooped up by Capt. Jung. I just cleared four, you know."

Shepard's smile broadened, evidently surprised by the news. "That's extraordinarily good to hear."

"Bad day?"

"Bad couple of days. You said most of my crew—Lt. Alenko? Chief Adams?"

"Nah, I don't think your officers are there, but I'd have to check."

Forbes couldn't contain himself. "Shepard, what the hell's going on?"

"The same thing that was going on two years ago: this is just Phase Two." She looked off to one side, her eyes half-closed. "Don't tell anyone I've been asking around. I'd like to explain my lack of necrosis in person and at a time of my choosing."

She wasn't joking, and the way her brow furrowed spoke volumes: there must be some kind of complication she had not accounted for or found time to work around. The blatant show of anything less than the firm control she always projected worried him enough to try and raise some levity for the situation. "And yet you call _me_ in the middle of the night 'Hey Dresdon, I need a favor'?!" He scowled at her. "You're a real piece of work, ma'am."

She smiled at this. "You have no idea. I thought you liked surprises, you know, keep you on your toes?"

"I like cake and ice cream on my birthday, or visits from my girl. Real surprises, not drop-me-in-the-varren-shit surprises."

"I'll bear that in mind. So most of them are in one place?"

Forbes nodded. "You want me to look for your officers?"

"No, now that I know where to start I can do it on my own. But in case you ever need me…" she held up a card with a message reception node's address on it.

"You're hard to find these days. Elusive, if I may say." Forbes finished jotting down the address.

"The Elusive Woman…no, I suppose it doesn't have the same ring. Thank goodness," she added, seemingly apropos of nothing. "I'll play with it in my spare time."

"Shepard, if you need extraction…" It sounded as if she was enmeshed in something. "Just say the word. I'll come for you."

She smiled, but it was a pained look, as if she very much appreciated the offer and equally much wanted to take him up on it. "I do, but it isn't feasible at this point. If it's to become feasible I've got to stack the deck first."

Why did he have the feeling she was trying to avoid a firing squad? He did not ask any more questions, not being sure he wanted to hear the answers. If Shepard was hemmed in somehow—she clearly had some room in which to operate—then someone was exerting a lot of power over her and he had always thought that impossible.

"Forbes, I promise, I'm doing the right thing for the right reasons."

Forbes smiled, a little surprised at this assurance. She'd softened, somehow, even if he had no doubts that she was just as efficient as ever when it came to duty. "All right. If you say so. Nose is out."

"Thank you." she glanced off to one side. "Shit—the overseer's awake."

The connection abruptly severed.


	93. Assessment

The invitation for you all to offer word prompts it (and will remain for quite some time) open, if you're still interested in participating. Thank you to those who have already contributed!

-J-

"What do you think, Chambers?" Shepard's gaze in the general direction of the lab left no doubts about to what she was referring.

"I knew from his psych profiles that Dr. Solus was motivated…but he is like a hamster on coffee." She did not miss the near explosion of coffee from Shepard's nose at this blunt declaration. "I think he's going to be a _very_ productive member of the team."

"Indeed." Shepard managed with some dignity. Whatever she was thinking (her eyes half-closed when she was deep in thought but not in a situation where it mattered if anyone noticed) she did not share it.

"Um…how's Garrus? Officer Vakarian…?" She had not dared to broach the subject earlier, partly because she could think of no way of doing so without raising eyebrows, and partly because Shepard's entire demeanor screamed _I'm worried; don't bother me unless it's life or death. _Well, that was to be expected; Garrus was, after all, part of her original crew.

The luck of that! Chambers could have told Miranda and the Illusive Man that Jacob might have many qualities similar to Commander Alenko, but Shepard would never see him as an attempt to keep her comfortable. In fact, the similarities might make her even more wary—not necessarily of Jacob himself, she would likely conclude he was simply a strategically placed pawn—but of everyone and everything else.

It was a distraction, and if the Illusive Man wanted to minimize distractions he was _not_ doing a good job. She would never question him out loud, but she would have to remember to voice these concerns to Miranda.

Shepard came back to herself. "He's…he's been through a lot."

"I can tell." She did not have to work to conjure much sympathy. She knew what broken people looked like, and even if Garrus was not 'broken'…he was definitely close. Shattered might be a better word. "I just want to hug him tight and whisper, 'it'll be all right'."

"I know." Shepard moved her lips as though to add something before cutting the thought off with a click of teeth. "But don't go doing that psych-thing on him. It'll make him nervous. Trust me, you _don't_ want him nervous."

The first part was undoubtedly true, but she suspected this was Shepard trying to keep Cerberus' metaphorical mitts off her crewman. It was true, there was something appealing about a broken, jaded turian in need of, at the very least, a hug and a shoulder to lean on. However, she was not dumb enough to make any sort of earnest pass at Garrus because Shepard would come unglued. The fiercely protective streak showed in Shepard's word choices and in the way she changed her posture.

Unglued was not what the Illusive Man, Miranda, or anyone else wanted. It was her, Chambers', job to make sure Shepard acclimated. Still, as far as she understood turian concepts of attractiveness, Garrus was certainly up there.

"Why?" Shepard chuckled, shattering Kelly's thoughts, "You interested?" It was not an innocent question but what, exactly, Shepard meant to convey Chambers wasn't certain. It was easy to read a dozen things into the question from the most obvious ('if you've gone xeno, keep your mitts off Garrus') to the less obvious and decidedly paranoid ('don't try using him against me—you won't like it'). Of course, it was entirely possible that the question was exactly what it sounded like…but Chambers did not think so.

"Me?!" Chambers managed a passable squeak. If Shepard thought of her as a harmless kid, best to play up the image. Shepard was not a gullible woman, but Chambers could safely declare herself as competent to get under and stay under Shepard's radar of suspiciousness. She would not be half so effective at monitoring the Commander if Shepard didn't write her off as harmless.

The ability to appear so harmless was why she was picked. Shepard was used to looking over her shoulder for the next person to try to sell her out. If she perceived a possible threat she would do everything in her power to keep the threat at a distance and off balance—and this was yet another distraction the Commander did not need. She could not think of any way to reassure the Commander, but she also supposed such reassurances would be counterproductive, anyway.

Best to play naive and let things progress. The Commander was stable, seemed to be integrating as well as could be expected, and hadn't tried to remove EDI from the _Normandy_ via power tools.

"Oh, no, no, no. I like nonhumans, but…well, I wouldn't want to break up a good dynamic." Let Shepard read whatever she wanted into that. She did not think Shepard had the impression of her being less than professional, but maybe the hugging the turian comment worried the Commander. "And Garrus is…he's very intense, isn't he? Personality-wise?"

"Just yanking your chain, Chambers. Kelly," Shepard corrected herself. "Yes, he is." Her tone implied it was a good trait as often as not.

This time she caught herself, immediately hiding behind her coffee. Chambers did not believe Shepard—the Commander was simply testing the waters to see what was lurking.

Whatever she found—or didn't find—Shepard took a sip of her own coffee. "Don't try messing with his head or analyzing him. At least…" Shepard shrugged, accepting Chambers' unofficial function, "well, you know your business. He's sharp, though, so watch it."

"I have no intention of doing either of those things, Commander."

Shepard smiled as she reappeared from behind her coffee mug. "You know: I actually believe that."

Chambers did not grit her teeth, but she did tuck a lock of hair behind her ear in lieu of doing so. So, the conversation wasn't really about Garrus: it was Shepard making a random ping to see if anything came back. She did not let herself forget how sharp Shepard was, but the Commander still managed to startle her with these random 'tests'.


	94. Misgivings

Still accepting title prompts! (And to those of you I haven't/can thank via PM, thank you for your participation!)

-J-

"_Commander?_" The voice that came over her office's comm unit did not belong to Miranda, Joker, or Dr. Chakwas, the most regular of those she heard from. "_This is Kelly."_

Shepard closed her terminal, a little surprised. Chambers usually relayed messages face-to-face only. "Yes? What happened? What's wrong?"

She was halfway out of her seat when Chambers chuckled at the quick-to-react response. "_No, nothing wrong, Commander. One of your recruits is here. Operative Taylor is waiting with him in the briefing room. If you'd like to re-review Mr. Massani's dossier, prior to meeting him, I'll be happy to provide you with one._"

"Just a minute," Shepard shifted her focus from Chambers to her own thoughts. "Massani, Massani…" Shepard found the correct datapad (part of a small stack filling one of the racks where model ships were supposed to go, out of convenience) and scanned over it. "Wow. He's a looker, isn't he?" she muttered to herself, more because what she skimmed from the datapad was not exactly appetizing.

On paper he sounded like a rabid varren.

At which point she corrected herself: a person did not necessarily match their on-paper description. She didn't. Most people she knew didn't…or, at least, in person the traits were more balanced than when printed in black and white. "I've got a copy. Thank you Chambers, I'll be down promptly."

A good thing, having Jacob wait with him: Massani wasn't a biotic and she had enough faith in Jacob's abilities to trust that, if anything happened, a problem would be contained quickly. She did not need to read the full datapad of Massani's exploits—there was too little subtlety for her tastes. _Wrex_ seemed subtle by comparison: Massani seemed to like carnage for its own sake.

Or because it was easy, which was worse. She worried about his self-restraint; this mission would get tense, she had to be able to trust her people to know when to pull the trigger, and when to wait to do so.

-J-

Zaeed knew he was grating on the security officer's nerves as he sat sprawling in one of the comfortable chairs, sharpening a knife with slow precision.

The doors hissed open. The security officer snapped to attention and received a crisp if perfunctory salute in return. "So, you're Shepard." She was taller than he expected.

"Yes. Is Miranda planning to proctor this meeting?" The question was meant for the security officer who— Zaeed noted blandly—had _not_ introduced himself. Tch—how rude.

"The message to her was…delayed. The last mission was kind of messy," Jacob responded blandly. He walked a fine line in trying to keep to orders when he had them coming from two totally different sources…sources whose policies and methodologies differed greatly and sometimes conflicted.

Like now, and Shepard knew it. "Head her off."

Zaeed could tell the officer did not like the instruction—it was an order, though Shepard made it sound like a request—but he did not argue with it or try to change Shepard's mind. He smartly excused himself to head off 'Miranda'.

"You've got an impressive record. Too impressive to be exaggerated."

She didn't like him, but was trying to be 'fair' in her assessments. Well, liking someone wasn't a prerequisite to working with them: Shepard's association with Cerberus was a case and point. Alliance heroes didn't shack up with pro-human terrorists under normal circumstances.

Zaeed laughed at this, tapping the knife against his foot, which rested on his knee. "I'm not a soldier, but I'll get the job done." With that one little rider on the bill.

"So am I, and so do I." Shepard leaned on the table, examining him closely.

Zaeed was too old, too experienced, and too sure of himself to let the little toy soldier intimidate him—though it was a good try.

"Why don't you tell me why you're here?" She smiled with her mouth but not her eyes. It was an assessing, calculating look. Well, if she could get in his head she could damn well get lost in there and stay lost in there too.

"You need the best, and Cerberus is paying my fees…and ensuring some technical assistance," he sneered the military-esque line, "on another job." Always a catch…and with Shepard to throw in Vido's face, he would never see the bullet.

She did not answer this right away, though he felt reasonably sure she was still feigning not knowing anything. People like Shepard dealt with surprises—that did not mean she liked them. "Technical assistance?"

"Ah, your bosses like throwing you surprises, do they?" Zaeed asked. "Been called on to liberate a mining facility—I'll send you the coordinates once your damn VI stops blocking me."

-J-

EDI popped up. "It is against Cerberus protocol to accept unauthorized coordinate entry. Commander, you may authorize the transfer if you wish."

Shepard was not sure she believed this; she did not think EDI was _lying_, per se, but she had a feeling not all coordinate transfers would require a senior crewman's approval. Or was it, possibly, EDI trying to affirm that nothing happened on this boat without Shepard's (or Miranda's) say-so? Undoubtedly EDI had Zaeed's file, and undoubtedly the AI had some instructions with regards to keeping things running smoothly where she could. "Let him make the transfer. Thank you, EDI." The politeness, while correct, was perfunctory.

She still did not like having an AI on board.

Fortunately, EDI was the least of Shepard's concerns right now. At the very least, Miranda would not jeopardize herself—or her project—without an ironclad reason. Right now, Shepard felt free to focus on Zaeed. She did not usually let personal considerations influence her judgment, not if she could help it…but right now all she could see was a mad dog, and she wanted it off her ship.

Which was why she _made_ herself give him the benefit of the doubt. "We'll put you in starboard cargo bay. Get your stuff."

"Not much to get: I travel light."


	95. Impressions

Beta-read by Saberlin.

Still accepting title prompts! (And, again, thanks to all of you who have/are participating!)

-J-

Cerberus Private Circulation

Presiding Officer: Lawson, Miranda R.

Presiding Specialist: Chambers, Kelly U.

General Report for the Normandy SR-2, Lazarus Cell

Commander Shepard shows signs of acclimation to the Normandy and her crew. The addition of Officer Vakarian is a windfall no one could have expected. All behaviors indicate she feels she now has an ally to watch her back. She doesn't seem to be overtly expecting Cerberus to sell her out, but the fear of such a thing remains a constant undertone. It's only conditioning, something she's learned; I don't think it will be detrimental to the mission. I would advise great care at this early stage, so she does not feel betrayed.

Operative Lawson was correct in thinking some sort of control might be necessary. Shepard might go rogue under the proper circumstances, but I believe the Reaper threat is enough to secure her cooperation for the time being. She exhibits the dedication and integrity all previous reports cited. I think it's safe to say that aspect of the project was a success. There are no signs of aberrations that go against Shepard's personality grain.

EDI still reports Commander Shepard is not sleeping well; nightmares mostly. Understandable, and they should wear off; medical logs from her previous posting indicates nightmares were a normal aspect—healthy or otherwise. On a side-note, I've given the Commander a simple exercise to see if putting her nightmares down on paper—or the residual traces of them—might not help her process them. She might have acclimated to the Cipher two years ago, and there is a distinct possibility she is having to do it again, hence the nightmares. I did check with Dr. Chakwas about that, and while the Commander blames the 'happy sludge' Dr. Chakwas prescribed for the pain of her scarring for 'weird dreams' Dr. Chakwas has noted the occurrence of these dreaming disturbances has increased.

On the note of scarring: according to Operative Lawson, we were not expecting anything this extensive, but then again, who knew what to expect? The scarring is not healing, due to the stressful nature of her mission. For vanity's and comfort's sake, I recommend a look into fixing the damage via medical means.

The Commander's interactions with Mr. Massani, while limited, are doing nothing to aid in her transition to a calm mindset that would promote self-healing. I recommend preparation for the ejection of Mr. Massani from the crew—though Operative Lawson disagrees. Thankfully, my reports demand all observations and suppositions, likely and unlikely. If the Commander perceives Mr. Massani to be a liability she will not keep him around, whatever his qualities or qualifications. She will label him a risk to her crew and will not suffer the contuniation of that risk.

I must admit, I am not much fond of him either, though I have not spoken more than a few sentences to him. He seems to me very unstable, not dependable—like a flamethrower when a match would more than suffice. It is entirely possible that bullet he took to the head added to or exacerbated an existing streak of instability. I will keep an eye on things, so they do not escalate. If necessary, I have access to sedatives, and can find the means to administer them as needed. Operative Lawson has been informed, and has consented to carry a spray herself, just in case.

Officer Vakarian is settling in well. Recovery from the physical trauma has been rapid, and return to duty has been approved by Dr. Chakwas. He shows overt signs of wariness, watchfulness, and general low-key mistrust of all operatives aboard ship—he seems to know the whole ship is bugged. Operative Lawson caught him looking for them in the belly of engineering where he has established his quarters, with Shepard's approval.

Space permitting, it is my belief he would have holed up in the main battery, it being a warmer environment than anywhere else, but turians and those long legs…he wouldn't comfortably fit. I also think being near the main cannon gives him a sense of security, since no one can do anything to it without his knowledge. He has probably heard how the last _Normandy_ went down., If so, then this may be attributed to making sure the weapons array is not responsible for 'failing' to do its job and keep the crew alive.

I have not yet tried to make contact with him, though I don't doubt Commander Shepard has told him to expect me. If all goes well, he'll see me as the same kind of nonthreatening nuisance Commander Shepard does. It's quite useful, and an impression she's sure to propagate.

Officer Vakarian himself is quite courteous, almost demure for a turian, but I get the feeling it's not his first nature to be so. I am still awaiting his C-Sec records, but from the way Commander Shepard speaks of him (when she can be induced to do so) I think he's playing nice so as not to put the crew's back up against the wall. He trusts the Commander and her judgment to a degree I did not expect. Very few questions about her working with us, more concern about her getting in over her head.

All in all, I think he's stable, but I am a little worried about him. He seems…broken. Deeply hurt, and I do not think it is all recent emotional trauma, either. I cannot yet put my finger on it, but hopefully once I can start going through his background files I might find out what the source is.

Dr. Solus is interesting from a psychological perspective only as a study in perpetual motion. The salarian is like a hamster on double shot espresso, but maintains a standard of excellence that makes Operative Lawson seem outright complacent. Confident and competent, Dr. Solus has already de-bugged the laboratory—to Agent Lawson's consternation—and, I am not ashamed to admit, to my own disappointment. He has a habit of monologue-ing to himself, which might yield interesting insight into him or possibly the mission.

I think, of all the Commander's contemporaries, he is the one I don't fool.


	96. Bait

Beta-read by Saberlin.

AN: Loving the prompts you all are sending in!

-J-

"Commander Alenko," Councilor Anderson got to his feet, making up his mind. Glad Udina was not present to interrupt the meeting (he being Anderson's stand-in for some to-do in the Embassy Lounge) Anderson shook Alenko's hand and waved him to a chair. This was not a conversation he wanted interrupted, and Udina had spectacular timing for interruptions. "How's work?"

"No news is good news."

Anderson knew what that meant, but he said nothing. There was nothing to say. Two voice shouting 'fire' when there was no smoke visible did not count for much. He now knew exactly how Shepard felt. Though Spectre status was conferred upon her: she was a Spectre in name only, just as he was a member of the Council in name only.

They had wanted to make Alenko Shepard's successor—but it was a political stunt and all involved knew it. It was the one time Alenko put his foot down: he would _not_ do it. Anderson had not pressed too hard, but the fact was that the idea hadn't died with Alenko's flat refusal.

The Alliance wanted another Spectre. Alenko was a good pick on his own merits.

That was how he ended up with Alenko to run errands. It was not a bad situation.

"So it is, though that's not the reason I asked you to report in." Usually he did not have to ask Alenko to report in; the man was regular as clockwork—unnervingly so. However, this was important, and Alenko needed to be forewarned.

Some surprises you just didn't spring on a person and the one waiting in the wings was one of them.

"Another one?" Alenko's mouth thinned, his brows knit together.

Anderson took a deep breath, nodding. The disappearances of the colonies had a lot of people worried—though not worried enough, he felt—especially Alenko. There was no one to fight, as yet, no one to hold responsible for the vanishing colonists.

Emphasis on yet.

"Ferris Fields. The Alliance thought it was just a lapse in communications…but sent out a team just to check. They found…little of interest."

"Yeah, it's what they always say," Alenko shook his head. "And it usually means 'bad news'." There was a trace of something in Alenko's tone that made Anderson suspect there was a lot the biotic wasn't saying.

Maybe Sheffler _had_ chatted with him already. Maybe it was something else.

"It's been a long day: do you want a drink?" Anderson got up, heading for the sliding panel concealing the array of drinks to which a Councilman was entitled. He would prefer something stiff, but now was not the time. He was not even sure how much he wanted to tell Alenko before sending him out.

"No, thanks. I'm fine." But the tension in the air around him picked up.

"Seriously, Alenko, you're going to want a drink for this." Anderson heaved a sigh. Alenko trusted him, but Anderson was now some semblance of a politician, even if he had been a soldier first. He did not expect the trust to be absolute. Maybe he was doing Alenko a disservice with that expectation.

He set a small cup of cold tea on the desk before settling with his own, examining the contents before taking a sip, more because he needed something to do to keep from fidgeting. He was not a fidgety man by nature, but in this case...

Hm. Now that the moment had arrived, he wasn't sure how to proceed.

And he still wasn't sure if Sheffler had gone ahead and had his little 'chat' with Alenko…Alenko could play things close to the vest and Shepard would be a touchy topic. Cerberus would be even more of one. Putting the two on the same side of a line...it would be a _very _touchy topic. "You seen Commander Sheffler lately?"

Subtle. Very subtle.

"Who?" the question caught Alenko off-guard, and he havisibily ran through his mental database of names. "Oh, him. No, sir."

_Good_. "What do you remember about Cerberus?"

Alenko gave him a baleful look. "I know they're up to no good."

Anderson decided to stretch his mandate and tell Alenko certain 'secret things' a little earlier than planned. Hackett wasn't thinking in regards to one thing: break Alenko's trust by just throwing him in this particular shit without any kind of warning and they might never get it back. It would flush all the careful arrangements—with regards to Alenko's Spectre candidacy—down the toilet.

…that was very Udina-esque, Anderson thought bitterly. Since when did he stop being a soldier and actually start being a real politician? He might think about that idly, but he'd never really considered that it might happen.

It prompted him to become more forthcoming with information. Having the trust of one's crew was important. "You're right, they're not. There's…a possibility they may be involved in these disappearances."

"Cerberus is pro-human; they've sacrificed small numbers—well, relatively speaking—but entire colonies?" Alenko frowned. "That's a bit…odd."

To say the least.

"I know it sounds unlikely, but they're unstable. I'm sending you to Horizon…it's a colony out in the Terminus Systems. Your official cover is PR for the Alliance…" Alenko's expression crumpled, as though someone stomped on his foot, "…meanwhile, keep your eyes open."

Alenko looked as though he wanted to ask about the sudden jump between Cerberus and Horizon, but a moment later accepted that a military career often involved not knowing details. 'Forewarned was forearmed' was the conclusion that seemed to color his expression. "Okay. I'll pack up and catch the first flight out."

"Good." Anderson watched as Alenko tossed back his drink before getting slowly to his feet.

"Anything else, sir?"

Anderson debated whether or not to mention the 'anything else' that concerned him most, before deciding that he should. No, he had to. It was better _not_ let that aspect blindside Alenko. "There is one more thing…there are rumors that Shepard's alive."

Hm. Not the most delicate way to put it.


	97. Synthesize

Beta-read by Saberlin.

Author's Note: Hey! Newton's Second has just finished its first year of (very successful, in my opinion) publication! Thank you, readers and reviewers, for your support!

-J-

Cerberus Private Circulation DZ223-4619J

Presiding Officer: Lawson, Miranda R.

Presiding Specialist: Chambers, Kelly U.

Copy of psychological coping mechanism for Shepard, Jalissa A.

After EDI recorded repeated episodes of nightmares, I assigned Commander Shepard an exercise to help her synthesize post-resuscitative trauma. However, I believe that there is a greater concern: on Feros (2183) Commander Shepard gained the Prothean Cipher.

As uncomfortable as I am with speculating on this subject, I believe that Shepard's resuscitation is allowing the Cipher to establish fresh connections with her mind that did not previously exist. The Cipher has already given her comprehension of the Prothean language; it seems that the reconstruction of her brain (such as it was) has allowed broader integration of the information with which she was saturated. That is, I suggest the Cipher began integrating while Shepard's mind existed in a passive state; she couldn't continue blocking out what wasn't hers.

It is unlikely she will ever be able to make conscious use of much, if any, of the Cipher's wealth of information, but it is worth investigation.

The background information to keep in mind is that Shepard is half asleep when she creates these documents, so her thoughts are malleable, not altogether cohesive. However, the blocks established by full consciousness are greatly weakened. Her instructions are to sketch (or write) whatever is in her mind, as best she can, when she comes out of these nightmares.

Fig. 1: (a block of text containing the words 'it's dark it's cold can't breathe can't breathe' scribbled over and over).

Possibly references her last moments. The penmanship varies greatly from her usual utilitarian scribbles, though this is likely due to not being fully awake. The text gives way to 'falling up falling up', which butts up against a rudimentary sketch of a white planet—most likely Alchera.

Fig. 2: (eyes.)

The eye motif appears repeatedly. It is my belief that these are not random eyes or a sense of being watched, but that the eyes belong to someone she knows or knew—someone she's looking for and who might, possibly be looking for her—or someone she expects to look for her. Due to Shepard's lack of artistic articulation, it is not possible for me to even guess whose eyes these are.

Fig. 3: (two sets of scribbles, stacked one above the other, like phonetic spelling underneath a complicated word.)

These scribbles make no sense, but they are definitely linked. It's as if she's trying to tell herself how these two ideas correlate, using something from her experience that correlates with something from the Cipher (which, if true, supports my Cipher passive integration theory). I hope her artistic skills improve quickly: I'd love to know what she's trying to say. Whatever it is, it's important, it appears no less than four times in the foot and a half of sketching she did on this occasion.

Fig. 4: (scribble confirmed as a view of Ilos, possibly a depiction from the Prothean Beacon's message.)

This is a sort of cutaway view of the Refuge System, where the Prothean Beacon directed Shepard to go. It is proceeded and succeeded by multiple scribbles that are squashed so closely together (and surrounded by enough white space to show that they are a string of interrelated ideas). It is likely this is her rendition of the beacon's message, broken down into static images.

Fig. 5: (A string of guttural, hissing words.)

It is entirely possible these are phonetic spellings for Prothean words. whether they mean anymore to her than they do to me is unknown. Unfortunately, there is not much I can gather. I need a Prothean expert.

Fig. 6: (Lyrics from the song "Punishment" by Cruel and Unusual.)

Shepard's dossier indicates this is her favorite song.

Fig. 7: (Rudimentary representation of a turian—possibly Saren.)

Why Saren—and it probably _is_ Saren, given the 'wiring'—should appear here, I have no idea. I have not tried to breech the subject with Shepard, as it is understandably delicate, but I shall try to do so in future. The fact that he appears while none of her colleagues do is odd. Usually people reach for the familiar when responding to trauma.

Fig. 8: (Despite the lack of skill, it is easy to see that this is a depiction of her, but with the scarring that failed to heal before she was forced back to functionality grossly amplified.) Clearly Shepard is having self-image issues, the feeling of being 'maimed'. She is trying to establish the habit of _not _fiddling with the scars on her face. Although there is a possibility of the scars healing themselves, I recommend a push for surgical repair: Shepard is in a very stressful position. She is unlikely to be able to maintain the mindset needed for self-healing and she doesn't need the downtime distraction of gaping wounds in her face. (I am forwarding this recommendation to Dr. Chakwas and Operative Lawson).

Fig. 9: _Am I me? Am I _real_?_

It's the insidious question she doesn't ask aloud, and enough to give anyone nightmares. Shepard is likely to need real counseling about this matter, and I do not think I am a good candidate for it. She believes my capacity as psychological evaluator is passive, and actively trying to pick her brain will destroy this notion and put her on her guard. If she survives this mission, I strongly recommend Shepard's case be transferred to [CENSORED]. He is both excellent in his field and has great compassion. If Shepard were to talk to anyone outside her cadre of 'trusted friends', I think she would talk to him. Bug his office and take appropriate monitoring precautions; he would never breech client confidentiality.

Fig. 10: (An excellent articulation of the Astro-Fizz logo.)

This correlates with the end of the session. (Please note, I recommend that Dr. Chakwas _not_ try to get Shepard to ease off the caffeine. Let her have her nervous habit. She doesn't need any more stress.)

-J-

Author's note: still accepting title prompts.


	98. Wake Up!

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

"Say that again." Alenko did not succeed in breathing normally—the air caught in his lungs as though they had malfunctioned—and his expression slid into lines of shock. It was a lie, or a rumor, it had to be. Rumors were rumors and usually untrue. Some people still thought _Elvis_ was drifting around somewhere…

It was not possible. There wasn't a body, not even a burnt husk. Medicine could do a lot of things but no one could fix _death_.

"There are rumors that Shepard's alive. Tali seemed pretty convinced Shepard was not only alive, but was responsible for a lot of the mech wreckage our people found on Freedom's Progress. Now, it's only a rumor," Anderson held up a forestalling hand.

The blood drained from Alenko's face before surging back. His mouth stuck shut, which was why Anderson was allowed to continue, rather than be overridden by the words trying to claw their way out of Alenko's mouth: _it's not true_.

…but if Tali thought so…she wasn't the type to hallucinate… But Shepard _couldn't _be alive…if she were she would have contacted him, let him know she was all right. She wouldn't have made him suffer that way…not when she knew damn well he _would_ suffer!

"…I've already notified Admiral Hackett, and he's looking into it, but for the moment, we've got to treat this carefully."

That went without saying. Shepard was almost a taboo subject with him, as was Williams—for someone to have the gall to walk around wearing that face…no. That needed to be rectified as soon as possible. "…has Admiral Hackett decided on a course of action?" The words came out clinically sterile of all inflection.

"…he's taking a w—"

"…wait and see approach." Alenko was disgusted. For the first time in a long time, he was absolutely disgusted with the Alliance—he had not felt this way since the battle over Shepard's funerary arrangements. After her death, it was just easier to grieve and let the Alliance point him where they wanted him to shoot…or warp…or 'do that thing.'

Suddenly everything seemed to be bringing her back.

He'd safely buried her two years ago, forced the sense of being haunted by her into an airtight, watertight container and shoved it in the deepest corner of his mind, only to find that the lack of the haunting presence left an emptiness harder to ignore.

And it was filling up again, whether he wanted it to or not. "I'll put out feelers." Alenko heard Dr. T'Soni was playing information broker somewhere…and she had been part of Shepard's team, holding the Commander in high regard—up on a pedestal, if truth be told. She'd want to know the truth.

"Do, but Alenko, this needs to stay quiet. Neither Admiral Hackett nor I want to cause a panic."

"So why not call it a routine war game?" Goodness knew it had been done before.

"Horizon is in the Terminus Systems. A large force moving around in there could cause…"

"Problems." Alenko shook his head: Shepard had been on the receiving end of a similar conversation. Strange how these things came full circle.

"Your priority is keeping an eye on the colony; you're one of the best we've got, you know what you've got to do. We'll have assistance waiting for you, plenty of backup."

That was reassuring: he had wondered if maybe someone hadn't gotten a mistaken view of what 'do that thing' entailed. "I'll see to it," Alenko answered blandly. "These rumors…I don't doubt Tali _thought_ she saw Shepard, but…" he trailed off.

Anderson had mentioned Cerberus. Cerberus was always up to something gruesome or grotesque, there was no reason to think they weren't still at it now. Cerberus he could deal with—could and would. With them in the mix, this 'Shepard' was probably just a kind of imitation. They would love nothing better than to have Shepard on their side: she was one of a kind.

Well, whoever this was had better steer clear of him. Tali might take things at face value, especially if it was something she wanted to believe. Tali would rather believe Shepard had not died, had simply dropped off the grid and left them to grieve than anything else.

"I know, it's a slim chance and there's probably nothing to it. I just wanted you to have the heads-up—no surprises."

Alenko did not know how much credibility to give that _no surprises_ line, though he appreciated the warning. Was it better, really, or worse to have this rumor bouncing around in his head? Most of him was skeptical, even disgusted by the new use to which Shepard's name and face were being put.

Part of him, the stupid part, wanted to believe she was alive—it was the part that would forgive her if she was, and would accept her reasons whatever they were…

…but that part of him also contained the faulty emergency brake between his brain and his mouth. It was responsible for every stupid or embarrassing thing he ever said in her presence and was therefore not to be trusted. He had almost stopped saying stupid things around people.

…of course, most of the time he was not around people he wanted to impress, or about whose opinions he cared. "I'll get my stuff together."

"I'll have you contacted when we've got a transport. Meanwhile…" Anderson waved in a 'do what you've got to do' fashion.

Alenko saluted, grabbed his bag from its spot by the door, and swung it over his shoulder before striding out. He'd never been so glad to get out of that office. The air outside the room seemed to slam into him, as though chilled several degrees. His skin crawled as he looked around for a moment, as though expecting the Embassy to have changed.

It had not, of course it had not.

Yet he felt as though someone had shouted in his ear while he slept: _Wake up!_


	99. Shadow of a Doubt

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

"So, your STG work. Anything you can talk about or is it…" Shepard made a motion with her hand to indicate 'falls under code of silence.'

Shepard would know about code of silence. Operator. Spectre. Lots she couldn't talk about.

…lots he didn't want to talk about. Shepard known krogan sympathizer—or maybe 'sympathizer' too strong a word.

Would need to watch for discussion.

"Research. Not _simply_ research," he responded. "Recon missions, covert, served under young captain named Kirrahe. Studied krogan genophage, took water, tissue samples from krogan colonies."

"Huh. I knew an STG guy named Kirrahe. We met on Virmire."

"Virmire. Yes. Saren and cloning facility. Heard he was part of that," Mordin nodded. "Jury-rigged explosive. always got job done with limited resources." He approved—not only of facility's destruction, also of thrifty use of ordnance.

Shepard's expression grim, twisted. Clearly lost people on Virmire. Yes, lost teammate, honored posthumously by salarians. Would be touchy subject. Hard to be human: too much time for emotions, inefficient synthesis of psychological stimuli.

Was glad to be salarian. Was old, yes, but synthesized emotion quickly. Stings wore off.

Only thing worse harder than being human was being asari. Only thing harder than being asari was being drell. Short lifespan, long memory. Unpleasant.

Was glad to be salarian. Easier in some ways.

"Good captain, bit of a cloaca, though."

Shepard snorted at this, but shook her head. Clearly favorably impressed by Kirrahe

Hmph. Never had to work with Kirrahe long-term. Wouldn't be smiling like that if she had. Ah, well. Ignorance was bliss.

"Loved his speeches. 'Hold the line.' Personally prefer to get the job done and go home. Probably military bravado, jargon, chest-pounding…" he looked up to find Shepard's expression caught between amusement and retaliation.

Shepard was soldier—chest-pounding a behavior seen in terrestrial gorillas. Yes, could be insulting. Shepard a specialist. Superbly trained as far as humans went. Yes, could be insulting, if gorilla-military correlation was made.

Would need to counter that. "No offense."

"Uh-huh." Not convinced, but not willing to make issue of it. Good. Making issues over semantics inefficient…

"So, why was the STG studying the genophage?"

…should have let issues over semantics occur. Could have stopped semantics argument when military/gorilla correlation apologies exhausted. Now would have to keep playing with semantics to allay suspicion.

Blunt 'no discussion' likely to be of interest to krogan-sympathetic parties. Would need to be careful…

"Krogan Rebellions bloody. Dangerous. Nearly as bad as Rachni attacks." Had heard rumors of Rachni on Noveria…had heard rumors of Rachni _release_ on Noveria…maybe should discuss _that_ instead.

She should avoid genophage questions, he would avoid Rachni questions…all would go smoothly.

"Rachni can be pretty bad," Shepard agreed.

Hm. No shame if Rachni released. Would talk about it if he asked.

"Look, if you can't talk about it, just say so," Shepard said, waving to indicate that she would not be offended or put off by a professional requirement for silence.

Was used to code of silence.

"So."

Something in his crushed sinus slipped, forcing him to sniff deeply. Disgusting feeling, sludge oozing about…maybe should look into reconstructive surgery after all. Not really necessary, though. Old man. Could go anytime.

_Sniff. _

…and didn't like anesthetics.

Shepard put her face in both hands, shaking her head.

Well, she left herself open to silly word jokes. Shepard liked word games.

And was best not to discuss genophage work. Word games good distraction for her. Especially if humorous. Humor harmless, promoted harmless topics for conversation.

Salarians loquacious species; liked words and word games. Lots of talking. Quiet lab…unsettling. Hence chatter to self. Not that anyone but AI listened to self-oriented chatter. Still, AI helpful if conversationally inept.

Might be overcome over time; AI observed crew, learned from behaviors.

Could be dangerous. Could be useful.

Not the focus of exercise. Needed to return to current conversational track…

…genophage question evasion.

"Simple recon, nothing to worry about. But population explosion always possible; everyone makes mistakes." Probably didn't believe that any more than he did. After all, STG not paid to make mistakes. "STG like to be prepared. Likely and unlikely scenarios. Old hypothesis, new data." He shrugged. It was not untrue, but it certainly veered off in the wrong direction.

"Right." There it was: '_for such a short-lived species, salarians have _way _too much time on their hands_.'

Benefit of quick thinking, data integration, idea synthesis. Compensation for short lifespan. All species receive tradeoffs for strengths. Weaknesses created a kind of balance between species.

…asari seemed largely an exception to rule.

"So how's the swarm countermeasure coming?"

"Coming. Waiting for samples to finish processing. In meantime, think I've found cure for Joker's condition. Wait…" he picked up the datapad he'd set aside when she came in. "No, no, no no no no, would cause liver failure. Not a viable option."

"No…Joker kinda needs his liver…"

"Humans have only one? Hm. Problematic." Krogan lucky in that respect: possessed redundant organs. One liver fails, other liver take over. But cure not designed for krogan.

Not sure krogan suffered from condition.

"Well, I'll let you get back to it." Shepard climbed off her chair.

"Nice talking with you, Shepard. Be here if you need me."

Shepard didn't drop by often—rightly assumed work was delicate, needed undivided attention. Liked to make sure he didn't feel isolated back here.

No need to worry. Fantastic lab setup. Nice to work for project with a budget.

Besides, lab had a window. Looked out over drive core, yes, but was a window, nonetheless. Workspaces always better off for having windows.

…buildings on Tuchanka not known for windows. Or structural integrity.

Wished he hadn't brought up genophage work, even in passing. Work was done, genophage altered, project closed. Post-alteration assessments concluded. Mission over. Needn't agonize.

He turned to the seeker's tank. Needed all faculties available for work on seeker swarm countermeasure. Distractions led to errors, errors lead to corpses…lots of bodies. Didn't want that.

…had seen too many. Far too many.

-J-

Author's note: Still taking title prompts!


	100. Axe

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Shepard's misgivings about Zaeed emerged even amidst her relief at having a mind like Mordin's involved with the seeker warm problem and with Garrus being on the mend. Dr. Chakwas cleared him for duty—but with the understanding that further bouts of missile tennis was _out_.

Both those things put her in a good mood, a mood in which she felt she had _accomplished _something, taken several steps forward, moved closer to the end goal.

She had Garrus on her team, and he wasn't dead. His presence was a windfall she could not have expected. Ever. She could not put into words what it meant to have his specific familiar face on board the _Normandy_. She now had a corner against which to put her back if things went badly.

Which brought her back to her current concern: Zaeed.

If Zaeed had been anything other than what he was, Shepard's good mood would have counteracted a budding dislike of the man. However, her good mood was not that good. She had, and she finally admitted it to herself, expected someone of Wrex's caliber: a mercenary who was, by his own definition if no one else's, a professional, somewhat methodical, somewhat predictable. Someone who could comport himself as a member of a team regardless of whether he was a team player or not.

She never felt any discomfort when hitting dirt with Wrex. Quite the contrary, as long as he and his shotgun stayed in front of her she was more than happy to have him present. He was a reassuring bulk with a good brain under his headplate.

Zaeed could not have been more different. The mangled face did not trouble her—his depth perception was not off, so she did not worry about him shooting her because he couldn't accurately gauge distance. She had asked about that, and received a prickly reply.

Zaeed grated on her nerves, and every time she looked at him she had one impression, and one impression only: that he was a mad dog, and would bite the hand that fed him if he was in a bad mood. She did not trust him, not even so far as she trusted all the Cerberus operatives on this ship.

Wrex had been a mercenary, seemingly self-motivated, but held a certain concern for his people to temper his judgment.

Zaeed was a mercenary, seemingly self-motivated, but without a concern beyond 'Zaeed'.

She trusted in one predictability about the man: he would shoot her if she ever got in his way. She trusted him to look out for number one every time she took him off the ship.

Garrus did not give the impression of approving of Zaeed's presence at all, and it was just what she needed, to have her _and_ Garrus keeping one eye on Zaeed if they ever went into a hot zone together. They did not need to get shot because they were watching the merc and not the enemy.

And she would need eyes on the enemy, because Zaeed came with a price beyond whatever credits Cerberus shelled out. His mission on Zorya took precedent over finding Okeer, simply because of the refinery workers Zaeed was contracted (not by Cerberus) to liberate. She did not believe for one second that Zaeed was telling all or even most of the truth. She accepted some people wanted to keep some details to themselves, and usually allowed them that prerogative. But she was also sure that whatever Zaeed was not saying was important—and if she could not trust him to be up front about important things, she could not trust him at all.

Worse, the crew did not trust him. She had sat in the mess hall when he walked through, felt the air and tensions in the room change when he walked in and change again when he walked out. That was bad for morale.

Good thing Cerberus paid the merc's fees. She wouldn't have.

In fact, one wrong move and he might find himself walking home.

What _had_ the Illusive Man been thinking? She knew Jacob would not like Zaeed. She expected Miranda to have a certain amount of distaste for the man. She was not disappointed on either count. If it were anyone else, Miranda might complain—and be right in doing so—that they could not pull this mission off without the best of the best.

But, Shepard appended sourly, if Zaeed was 'the best of the best' they should just give up the fight now and go home.

If the crew could not trust her to know when to say 'enough is enough', they could not trust her at all, and on this mission trust was important.

If she felt bad for planning to axe the merc before he could prove (or disprove) himself, she did not feel so bad as to reconsider. She _would_ take Garrus with her on Zorya—he would shoot Zaeed on principle, if Zaeed ended up being a liability. It sounded bad to put it like that, but she knew she would do the same.

Her team came first; they had to, particularly if Garrus was on that team. She'd already nearly got him killed; she did not intend to repeat her mistakes. Especially if repeating that mistake came from having a loose cannon on her team.

As much as she would enjoy telling the Illusive Man his "X" number of credits paid out to the merc were down the toilet, she would also have the satisfaction of feeling that she really, truly did decide who was on her team.

And who wasn't.

No, she had to be objective about this, or risk establishing a bad precedent. She could take Garrus and Zaeed out en route to Zorya, just for a couple hours. There was wait time involved with space travel and always something in her inbox requiring her attention.

That was fair.

She could ask Garrus about axing Zaeed once the mission was over.

-J—

Continuing thanks to those adding to the title prompt word bank. ^_^


	101. Two to the Head

The ship was so damn clean it made his teeth squeak. There was a reason he'd never joined the army—or whatever—and this sort of thing was why. They were like so many little windup toys. He wondered what the regular crew (as opposed to Shepard and her ground team) would do if something went horribly wrong.

No one had asked him, yet, if he believed in these Collectors or their 'Reaper' masters. He doubted they would, but he had an answer ready all the same: if Vido was dead, he'd shoot at whatever Shepard pointed him at, whether he believed in it or not.

Of course, Shepard didn't know about Vido. He was not worried about—or looking for—her approval. All the same, his guts told him what kind of person Shepard was: she'd respond better, do better in the field, if she thought civvies were at risk.

They weren't his civilians and, even if they were, what did it matter? He just needed a couple extra guns. Shepard and her turian should do just fine.

He frowned, prowled once around the room. His age and previous injuries showed when he was alone, manifesting most strongly in a limp that made his gait somewhat unwieldy. Too many bullets to the knee. Or was it a steel pipe? Or both, but at different times?

It got hard to remember specifics after a while.

Or maybe that was some forgotten blow to the head.

Or Vido's bullet.

His mouth curled into a snarl that, on another person, might have been a smile and which distorted his features, emphasizing his scars and revealing previously unobtrusive ones in gross detail.

It could have been the bullet. That would make a lot of sense.

Lucky for Vido he, Zaeed, liked to keep things simple: no extended drawn-out affairs. Shepard's presence would prevent something like that, of course, but Vido was slippery and Zaeed didn't plan on giving him any opportunities to slither way like the snake he was.

No, not a snake. Zaeed was fine with snakes. He used to own one. Poor bastard.

Come to think of it, he'd found a particularly knock-you-on-your-ass bottle of booze with a snake in it. _That_ had been interesting. His sneer receded. Too bad he was on a ship full of milk-drinkers—Shepard included.

He suspected, though, that with her came a simple lack of anything left to prove. She was an N7 and, while that was supposed to be the military's pinnacle of skill and blah blah blah, he'd wait until he really saw her in action before he decided if 'N7' really _meant _anything.

At least, as far as he was concerned.

There were a lot of starstruck eyes around here. Having one of his own damaged in some long-ago fight seemed to have saved him from that state of soppiness.

Or maybe it was just being jaded by life.

Or maybe it wasn't giving a shit unless he had to.

Still, she was a good weapon to point in Vido's direction; she wasn't afraid of 'shoot to kill.' She just needed proper motivation and Vido was just the sort to give it to her.

He shook his head, reached for his cigarettes, but didn't draw forth the pack. No smoking on a damned alliance-style frigate. This bucket might fly Cerberus colors, but between Shepard (with the backing of that centerfold-worthy CO) the ship ran to Alliance rules and regs.

So no smoking. Damn.

He frowned at the room, his choice of accommodations, walked over to the crate upon which Jessie reposed and frowned at her, too.

This crew liked their shiny guns. With a pack of mercs he might have asked whether they were any _good_ with their shiny guns. He didn't need to ask here. Shepard had taken him and her turian on a short ground mission—he recognized a skill screening when he saw one—while cuing for a mass relay.

The turian in particular gave the impression of being nothing short of martial competence. He also gave the impression of keeping an eye on Shepard's back—an eagle eye, Zaeed gave his grimacing smile again. Well, let the turkey do whatever he wanted. He, Zaeed, was being paid for a service, a specific service, no more no less.

He could honor a contract. Especially if it put Vido's corpse at his feet. He'd prefer an end that involved a recognizable body and several confirmations that the bastard was dead. No risks taken here: he wanted bullet holes, numerous bullet holes and several headshots.

Shepard's turian, so he understood from a mess hall conversation he'd walked through, was good at those. He'd need to be.

And Shepard herself doubled up on everything, since the Alliance still taught that 'two tot the chest, one to the head' thing. It worked well enough on the average merc. It would probably work on Vido.

But Vido was a slippery bastard. It might take exceptional measures. Explosions. Poison gas. Nuclear fire. He'd love to see a nuke up close—but not _that_ close, and then there was no body to identify and he'd spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder.

Maybe something big, like an explosion. Even marines could appreciate a good explosions. He didn't know about turians and explosions, but Shepard's turian would fall in line with whatever she wanted.

No. The explosions wouldn't work, fun as they'd be. There was no certainty in that, and explosions didn't leave recognizable bodies. Vido might slip out at the last minute, and who could tell whether the charred remains belonged to him or some other poor slob. He'd have to be satisfied with a body and Shepard's cookie-cutter 'two to the chest, one to the head.

Better yet, he'd do it himself, and do it in reverse, just to be sure: one to the chest to bring him down, two to the head to _put_ him down. And that would be that.

-J-

Continuing thanks to those who are still sending in title prompts!


	102. Preparations

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Shepard flung her helmet down on the couch as she lumbered into her sleeping quarters, Garrus not far behind her. He flopped onto the couch, moving Shepard's helmet courteously before he did so, as she dropped herself to sit on the edge of her bed, expression drawn.

"I think I see why you wanted a dry run," Garrus noted wryly, rubbing his neck.

"Was it that obvious?" Oh, yes, she was right to want to take Zaeed on a very brief dry run.

"Well, maybe not to Zaeed." Garrus' tone suggested that this might be willful ignorance, likely as not.

"What did you see?" She had her mind made up, but as a fallible human it could simply be very strong personality differences. Or it could be instinct kicking in: men like Zaeed did not inspire confidence in the first place, and she knew a person nursing a grudge, having done so herself for several years.

Not like this, though: Zaeed was homicidal and focused in his grudge. Her major concern was 'when is this going to flare and cause problems?'

"He's undisciplined; he's not used to working in a group and frankly, Shepard, I don't want him where I can't see him. He'll lose his temper one of these missions and _he_ won't be the one to pay for it." The flat declaration was mostly objective.

Thank goodness for Garrus. It was one of the reasons Shepard wanted him as her second opinion and second pair of eyes. Zaeed, a man of action, would bother Garrus—also a man of action—less than Zaeed bothered her (a woman steeped in discipline).

Zaeed could be an asset—she did not argue this—but he could also be a liability. Garrus, like everyone else, wanted to walk away from this 'suicide' mission, once the shooting stopped.

Who wouldn't?

"He's as much a danger to those workers at the refinery as to this Santiago person."

She thoroughly agreed with Garrus' assessment; she also missed Wrex's brand of mercenary. If taking a side mission made her uncomfortable, she was glad she'd done it now, for the sake of her team and the hostages. She knew to expect as much trouble from Zaeed as from any situation he got into. He would follow orders, but Shepard felt he would go against them if he wanted to. With or without sound reason.

She took a deep breath. Thank goodness Zorya itself was about credits from a productive mine. Injured workers couldn't produce, and mercenaries never had the necessary skills to fill in the gaps themselves if a worker needed replacing. That meant they needed as many of the workers alive as possible. Alive and functional.

But it came back to Zaeed: he did not strike her as a hostage-situation person. He'd shoot through a hostage as soon as look at one. That wasn't the way things went on this ship; it was also why she wanted Garrus. She had not forgotten the first headshot she saw from him.

"I wouldn't just get rid of him, but I wouldn't _trust_ him, either," Garrus finished, leaning back on the couch, but carefully so his fringe did not catch. The couch wasn't placed for a turian to be able to lean his head on the back rest the way Shepard could.

Shepard agreed wholly with the trust portion of the sentence, as she gazed at the ceiling. She would not—could not—flip the kill switch and lose Zaeed immediately. She had only personal opinions, a non-critical test run, and Garrus backing up her assessments. There were too many personal opinions to make a decision about a clean break in an objective fashion; she would have to wait, or it would seem as though Zaeed was gone for disagreeing with her.

Or, rather, that would be the popular perception, and she did not need the crew turning into yes-men, or walking on eggshells when she was around.

There was one extra benefit in giving Zaeed the axe: it would piss the Illusive Man off, losing Zaeed's fee _and _services in one fell swoop. In response to that, a wicked look spread across her face like oil on water. Lowering her chin, she found Garrus watching her.

From the way he was grinning, she suspected he had connected the dots and knew what she was thinking—or could make a ballpark guess. Of all people on this boat, he would commiserate most keenly with being hog tied by someone else's agenda.

Rather than bask in the sense of team consensus, she forced herself to ask an intelligent question. "Have you heard anything about him from anyone else?"

"No; people don't chit-chat with _me_." Possibly, Shepard mused, because the crew wasn't used to serving with non-humans; she didn't anticipate problems, as most of them were fringe members or those who supported her personally. "He stays in his room and people stay out of it. If you want my personal assessment…" he trailed off, leaving Shepard room to say if she wanted professional assessments only. "He's crazy; crazier," he held up a finger, "than the guy catching missiles with his face."

"There're lots of brands of crazy," Shepard shrugged, but smiled at the way Garrus expressed 'crazy'. She was glad he could joke about the incident, even if the memory of it still made her stomach feel cold. "I don't trust him; I don't think I _can_ trust him; I'm not sure I _want_ to trust him, to tell the truth."

"But you'll try," Garrus finished her sentence, then shook his head, hunching forward to stretch the muscles in his shoulders. "I really hope you don't get burned."

"'Don't get burned.' That was my plan," Shepard nodding in response.

"Because," Garrus added, more as if suddenly inspired than because he originally intended to make the statement, "it means _I'll_ be getting burned, too."

"Just like old times?" Shepard asked dryly. Garrus used the phrase often these days.

"Just like old times."

-J-

Still appreciating the title prompt feedback! Some really good stuff in there!


	103. Brace Yourselves

"Damn, what'd they do? Collect the fungal cultures from every major university from three systems and dump it all here?" Shepard asked, gazing around. Zorya might have been an attractive world if it wasn't so...sporous. If 'sporous' wasn't a word, it needed to be one simply to describe Zorya. The only place similar but worse, atmospherically speaking, in her experience, was Eletania.

Eletania had monkeys...

"Joker, you still on standby?"

"_I'm not seeing any air traffic where you are, but I'm sure that'll change once they know there's gonna be a party."_

"Good." She liked the idea of Joker and the Normandy's main cannon looking down on this mission. Ever since they'd climbed into the shuttle, Zaeed had seemed to fold in on himself, which made her more and more nervous.

Garrus shared the nerves, so the shuttle had, for a time, hosted three people so keyed up that, paradoxically, they managed to look bored.

Zaeed didn't know it, but the plan expanded to include Miranda and Jacob, despite Shepard's point blank, full stop refusal to take them in 'the first wave.' She wanted someone left to pull her boots out of the fire if things got a little too hot.

"Kinda makes you wish we could just level this place," Garrus rumbled.

Shepard nodded. If it weren't for the workers, she would consider it a viable option. She had no use for the Blue Suns; from what she understood, Zorya was—more or less—the galaxy's biggest protection racket.

"Vido'd just slither out while you were watching the smoke," Zaeed grunted.

"Oh really?" Shepard asked delicately. She knew the invocation of a walking corpse when she heard one, and now suspected why they were really here. Someone had a grudge to settle and someone wanted the best available backup.

"Yeah."

She glanced at Garrus, who shook his head slightly. _Bad hoodoo. _"Anything you want to tell us about Vido?" Garrus asked.

"He's a mean son of a bitch," Zaeed answered repressively.

"_Shepard, I've got multiple signals converging on your location. They're coming out of a side entry on the main building," _Joker relayed.

"Anything else?" Shepard asked, waving Zaeed and Garrus to bunker down.

"_Yeah, that other thing's taken care of and Gardner's doing chef surprise again._" The nonsensical second half of the sentence covered the first: Miranda and Jacob were, now, in the area, waiting for a cue.

In this case, a 'cue' had to be a verbal communication on an alternate channel—verbal since Shepard and Garrus agreed that Zaeed was not a variable that would promote smooth operations. She'd called him a rogue variable. Jacob was less flattering.

And, Shepard noted to herself as the shouts of the Blue Sun's investigatory team came to her through the 'sporous' air, she decided she might need to have a talk with Miranda. Shepard perceived a resentment towards the situation that did not show on Miranda's face—not so much resenting Shepard not trusting her judgment, but resenting that all these safety valves and emergency brakes were necessary at all.

She'd asked for the best and someone—doubtless someone who never set foot in a hot zone—gave her Zaeed.

No, Miranda wasn't going to call the mission successful unless there was an obedient (or, at the very least, collared and muzzled) mad dog at the end of it.

By the time the team stopped again—this time to listen to Vido snarling at his lackeys—Shepard knew, in her heart of hearts, that the mission here had nothing to do with the hostages. Not to Zaeed: those people were just convenient, made her willing to go along with the plan until she was so far in she couldn't back out.

"All right, you and Vido: talk," Garrus announced, crossing his arms as if to say that he wouldn't move a step further until Zaeed spilled his guts.

Shepard crossed her arms in similar attitude. "I'd like to hear this myself."

Zaeed's lip curled, but either he recognized immovability or a chance that his plan might derail, he shrugged. "He was a sadistic bastard when we started the Suns, and they only got meaner after his little coup."

"Wait, they're your mess?" Garrus asked, blinking owlishly.

"Now they're Vido's mess. Pirate bastards," Zaeed spat, recalling to mind something Shepard once heard a retiring officer say about the changes in the armed forces over the course of his career: 'it's still the navy; it's just not _my_ navy.' "So yeah, we have a past. Probably already figure out that much on your own." The remark was addressed to Shepard more than to Garrus.

"We're perceptive like that," she answered dryly. "Doesn't matter: nothing in the mission has changed." One did not need to hold a degree in psychology to know that 'changes to the mission' meant totally different things to Zaeed than it did to Shepard and Garrus.

For him the mission was, as ever, the death of Vido Santiago.

"He's wound tight," Garrus declared unnecessarily.

"Yeah, I'm getting that," Shepard agreed in an undertone. "Let's find out how tight."

"Gotcha," Garrus nodded, frowning at Zaeed's back.

"So, how old is this grudge we're supposed to be mopping up?" Shepard asked as gracelessly as she could manage.

"Grudge?" Zaeed bristled, turning sharply and stomping up to her. The gesture would have had more effect if she'd given ground. "Vido turned my men against me! He paid six of them to restrain me so he could put a bullet in my head," he pantomimed pointing a weapon to his own head and pulling the trigger, "for twenty years I've seen that bastard every time I close my eyes, every time I sighted down on a target, every time I heard a gunshot. Don't you call that a damn grudge."

"Then let's stop wasting time and get this mess sorted out," Shepard answered.

"I'm not the one asking fool questions," Zaeed growled before turning his attention to the bridge console.


	104. Hot Tin Roof

"Zaeed Massani."

Vido Santiago was younger than Shepard expected. She was also unimpressed, both by him and the thugs flanking him.

"You see what I see?" Garrus murmured.

She had, and for a moment toyed with the idea of shooting the fuel transport lines—or, if they weren't that, the pipes marked 'flammable.' "In a _fuel refinery_?"

"It's called 'fire containment' but I take your point," Garrus returned placidly.

There was, Shepard smiled inwardly, a time when Garrus would have taken the shot without thinking about the consequences. It was good to see he'd matured.

"Except they're no good," Garrus announced to Shepard in response to the last bit of Vido's 'welcome speech' about multiple bloodthirsty bastards willing to die for him.

Shepard nodded: Garrus knew the Blue Suns very well. He knew firsthand how 'no good' they were.

Her attention was fixed, whatever her mental meandering, on Vido. Shepard knew, in an instant, she should have had it on Zaeed. The mercenary, with a growl of 'burn you son of a bitch' let off two rounds, which struck the fuel line Shepard and Garrus had both noted. The first bullet punctured the tank, the second hot slug lit the fuel as effectively as any cigarette.

"Are in insane?" Garrus demanded before sending several rounds into Vido's men. Some of them were already burning, the floor beneath their feet catching fire. Apparently someone—or several someones—had walked through fuel or something for the floor to blaze like that.

Shepard was not fast enough—also having to put down suppressing fire—to stop Zaeed from striking the soft target that had most appealed to her: a steam line, probably a heat control measure used to cool some inner working of the facility.

Without waiting to see what his team would do, Zaeed had turned and begun slamming the butt of his rifle against the release valve. By the time Shepard crossed the room, no more than a few seconds, he'd knocked the valve free.

It was unfortunate, Shepard mentally snarled, he hadn't been standing two feet to his right. The steam would have made the situation better by removing a rogue variable.

The steam itself angled upwards, fanning the flames and making suppressing fire unnecessary.

The fire suppression protocols activated, wedging doors along evacuation routes open—but the steam had, as Zaeed intended, pushed the flames so they would catch any un-ignited pockets nearby, which created a sort of cascading effect, the refinery blazing up one pool or streak mark at a time.

"I was opening the doors," Zaeed returned shortly, in answer to Garrus' demand.

"We do not throw away lives needlessly," and her tone had something of the rolled up newspaper destined for a bad dog's nose in it.

Garrus loomed at her should, stating without words that all Zaeed had to do was look at Shepard wrong and the next bullet to the head Zaeed took would not be one from which he could walk away.

"And wander around the jungle for a few hours looking for another way in?" Zaeed snarled. "Waste time if you want to, I'm going to kill Vido..."

Shepard's temper, or perhaps her sense of what the situation called for, launched her into action. She drew back and, before Zaeed finished speaking, slugged him as hard as she could. Zaeed staggered back and Shepard wished she'd struck him with intent to break his jaw.

But he couldn't function at peak with a broken jaw, and with a flaming refinery to worry about…she needed even his help.

"You are going to complete the mission: rescue the workers. It's what you were contracted to do; it's the arrangement you and I had. I don't give a damn about Vido." Shepard responded, her voice firm, without menace, and with the promise that she would shoot him before she let him further compromise the mission.

Besides, she could always radio Joker for an airstrike. There was no way Vido would wander off on foot. He wasn't the type.

"You sure you want to go this route?" Zaeed demanded.

"I'd love to discuss this, but thanks to you the refinery's on fire," Shepard responded acidly.

"Let these people burn!" Zaeed snarled. "Vido dies, whatever the cost—"

"We need to move." And Garrus' tone conveyed that if Zaeed compromised the mission again, looked like he was going to go off the reservation, Garrus would not make Vido's mistake. The next bullet to the head Zaeed took would not be one he could shake off.

And Garrus didn't need anyone to hold Zaeed down while he pulled the trigger.

The simple fact that Shepard did not correct this threat seemed to drive the point home: Zaeed could leave on the shuttle as part of the team or he could stay here in a bag as a corpse. "Switch to breathers," Shepard announced into the angry silence, "be ready."

And thank goodness there was no risk of secondary fires. They were already all burning. If it was flammable and easy to reach, it had to be up by now. The only concern was whether the fires would get to the fuel holding cells. Thankfully, though, those should be locked down like turian bunkers.

"What's that humanism you have for this?" Garrus asked, frowning.

"'Cat on a hot tin roof.' I dunno if it's _applicable_, but the one I use is 'dance like a cat on a hot tin roof,'" Shepard answered.

"Let's make that our mantra. It's looking pretty thick in there. I'll take point."

"You'll take rear and keep an eye on things," Shepard corrected grimly, switching to her breather and heading into the flames and smoke. There was no way Zaeed went anywhere but in the middle, and she felt more confident with Garrus' gun ready to shoot Zaeed than she would feel with Zaeed having a clear shot at Garrus' back.

"Hell of a hot tin roof," Garrus rumbled, nodding Zaeed to go ahead of him.

-J-

Sorry this is late! (Again and as always, thank you to those who contributed/are contributing to my title prompt drive!)


	105. When the Devil Dances

"_Shepard_," Miranda's voice cut across the alternate channel. "_That refinery just lit up like a Christmas tree! What the hell's going on?_"

"It's okay! New lungs are still working fine!" Shepard returned, unsure how she wanted to break the news that Zaeed had proved himself unsuitable for what the mission required of him. She did not expect him to be the type to cut and run, but she certainly didn't trust him to run bases if he wanted to head into the outfield.

"_That's _not_ reassuring._"

"We're fine, we're all fine. Just a minor hitch. We are going to need a pickup, though…" A hot pickup, though she refrained from saying so. Some jokes just didn't need to be made.

"_When and where_?" Miranda demanded.

"Dunno yet, on both counts. I'll keep you in the loop. Gotta go, need my wits." She cut the connection, focusing on the mission itself: free the workers, caught in the locked-down portion of the refinery—a nice little innovation to prevent rescue. Sometimes faked fire alarms had their drawbacks.

The refinery burned like straw, the smoke billowed in elaborate towers, only to be flattened and deformed by the semi-functional fire containment procedures. She wondered if the building was up to fire code specifications, or if, being on a backwater planet, shortcuts had been taken.

Alenko would have hated the idea of shortcuts in safety measures.

Shepard jumped back, knocking into Zaeed and sending them both out of the way of falling roofing. A fresh wave of heat and smoke—distinguishable only because it did not contain a faint trace of cooking meat—hit her face and nose.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd tried to navigate a blazing wreck of a building. The fire kept finding things to burn and, by now, Vido's forces were trying to box them in—without success. In fact, she thought she saw something like desperation at being caught between a team of commandoes and Vido's driving personality. Or maybe they weren't happy to be in the middle of a flaming fuel refinery and didn't have the guts (or stupidity) to tough it out.

After all, this wasn't what they'd signed on for when joining the Blue Suns.

Not that she felt much sympathy for them.

"Fuel restriction terminal! Over there! Garrus, hit it! Zaeed, cover our backs! I've got the other terminal!" She almost missed the terminals. She certainly did not like the idea of Zaeed watching their backs, but she did not trust him with anything simpler than pulling a trigger.

Something jogged her memory, something about the Mindoiran fire service and trying to contain an out- of control agricultural burn. Something about fighting fire with fire…

That part of her life, she realized, was about as hazy as the air around her.

"Fuel valves are closes! Manually rerouting! Shepard, this system is shit!" So it was: her terminal was giving her nothing but static, probably something integral in the hardware managing display had melted.

"I know!" She glanced around, then activated her omnitool, hacking into the terminal.

-J-

The building had, officially, gotten too hot, even for the turian, and Garrus became aware of musty overheated-turian hanging in the air around him. He'd never seen so much fire in one place and sincerely hoped he never would. The mucosal layer covering his eyes thickened to ward off contaminants in response to all the smoke—he could still smell the stuff, even though his breather.

Or maybe that was just his imagination.

He had to duck and return fire as Vido's men caught up, this time from trying to flank them. Fortunately, Zaeed seemed to think that the faster they burned through Vido's troops—so to speak—the faster they could make up lost time. This desire manifested as a rain of bullets (and colorful curses) that was effective but not enough to balance out the man's earlier stupidity.

He, personally, thought they had lost too much time already. Vido was just going slip the coop and…

…coop. Like a chicken.

Coop. Like a bird. Now why hadn't he thought of that earlier?

"I got it! Buy me a second, I can hack fire protocol from here!"

Must be bad if she needed a hard connection to do it. Someone was getting a nasty-gram about this place's horrible safety measures.

"Joker!" he barked into his radio, abandoning peripheral thoughts to pursue his line of though via action. "You still there?"

"_No, I stepped out for a slushy._"

Oh, now that sounded good…

"What's our airspace look like?" he demanded.

"_Not a cloud in the sky. Nothing else down their either except, you know, that big column of smoke. You might want to get out of that burning building. EDI says it's failing fast."_

"Working on it. Keep an eye on any traffic in our airspace. We may need the Normandy's guns. Track and monitor all traffic and be ready to open fire on Shepard's or my signal."

He tuned out Joker's 'nice' of appreciation in order to get back to the fight at hand. Vido's forces, caught between Shepard's team and Vido himself, broke break under the strain. At least, this troupe did, deciding that discretion as the better part of valor.

Warm water came spraying form overhead, dampening but not quelling the fire.

"Go, go, go!" Shepard barked, taking off at a jog. "I found Vido! He's trying to access the main hangar! If we hurry we can catch up!"

"Tell me you locked that thing down!" Zaeed snarled.

"No, I opened it up!" Shepard snarled back. "Not that there was much to work with keeping it closed…" She added, more to herself than to anyone else. "I've got us a direct path, takes us right through the main warehouse."

"Opposition?" Garrus asked.

Shepard's response contained frustration augmented by the heat and smoke. "It's a civilian terminal, not a military-grade 'watch your workers' terminal! We're just going to have to cut in when we get there!"

-J-

The full motto is "When the devil dances, we cut in" and it was used by a fire brigade. I thought it apropos.

Continuing thanks to my prompt contributors!


	106. Cut Ties

Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Zaeed's heat sink cut off his barrage of fire. He ejected it, swinging about to snarl at Shepard. "You just cost me twenty years of my life!"

"Shout in a mirror, Massani!" Shepard snarled, her facial scars throbbing in time to her pulse, "We might have got him if we didn't have to mop up your mess first!"

Garrus edged to one side, out of Zaeed's line of vision, swapping his sniper rifle for his pistol. With Zaeed's temper flaring, he would not be surprised if the merc did more than point that rifle at Shepard.

Garrus never saw Shepard's sneer, but sneer she did, and stepped quickly two steps to the left.

Zaeed never saw what did it, only that an explosion rocked the ground upon which they all stood, and the next moment he was pinned under a heavy piece of metal, wrenched from its overhead fastenings.

Shepard's lip curled as she gazed at the pinned merc. "I ought to leave you to burn in your own fire." The galaxy would be a much, much safer place in some respects. If the idiot was stupid enough to set a refinery on fire, endanger the lives of some twenty plus civilians (and call it acceptable collateral damage) in the pursuit of one personal grudge…

…she'd had grudges before. But she had not endangered anyone but herself in the search to satisfy them. Garrus had grudges but, while working with her, had not endangered anyone but himself in pursuit of them.

Never while working with her.

"Very funny, now get me out of here!" Zaeed snapped, glowering at the soldier standing over him. When Shepard merely glanced back at the mess of a refinery, he gritted his teeth. She was one tough operator. If he hadn't known she was a bleeding heart, he might have worried. "You _need_ me for your mission. If you didn't, Cerberus wouldn't have paid my fees."

That was the caveat, though the merc did not seem to know it: _Cerberus_ paid his fees, not Shepard herself. Shepard remained immobile and impassive, her lips pulled into a remarkably thin line.

"All right! You've made your point!" For a moment, for a single moment, Zaeed knew she was going to leave him here, to burn alive.

"Have I?" She jerked her chin to Garrus, who wordlessly helped her move the heavy scrap. "Now _you_: move out." Shepard pointed for Zaeed to go first.

"Move out." Garrus echoed, when Zaeed made to say more. _He _would shoot Zaeed dead, right there, if the merc gave him a reason. He knew Shepard well enough to know Zaeed had not heard the last of this. In fact, if Shepard was any less the person he knew her to be, she would have saved Zaeed a great deal of trouble and capped him right here.

Except where Vido Santiago failed, she would succeed.

Garrus glanced in the direction the gunship had gone and raised his hand to toggle his radio.

Zaeed looked up when the doors to the starboard cargobay slid open. "Suppose you want to talk about Zorya…"

"Pack your shit. You're leaving." Shepard's brows knit so closely together they actually cut into her range of vision. She did not like to show it, but Zaeed had pushed enough buttons with her that she would like nothing better than to boot him out an airlock. She could not remember the last time she was so angry with someone sharing her duty station.

She should wait to cool off, at least take the time to change out of her armor, but she knew if she did she would ease off on Zaeed. She could not afford to do that. The rest of her crew could not afford for her to do that.

"Excuse me?" Zaeed growled, putting nasty emphasis on the otherwise polite words as he got to his feet, glaring at her. He heard her well enough, but he did not quite believe what he was hearing. The fees were, after all, hefty.

And he ached. That was never good for anyone's temper.

"I said 'pack your shit.' I'm putting you back where I found you: in some shithole." Shepard found herself shaking.

"This is a war, Shepard, civilians are going to die!"

"Don't talk to me about war, Massani. And don't talk to me about collateral damages either, I've seen that too. Right now, I'm worried about my team and me. In that order." Just because she sought to minimize casualties…why did so many people think it made her an idiot? It was what the Alliance trained her to do. But she couldn't fulfill that objective without a team she could trust…and who trusted her.

Zaeed threatened both those bonds of trust. She could not trust him to keep his mind on the mission, her team could not trust her if she let Zaeed tag along. It was a bad fit all around.

"I've survived the last twenty years by looking out for number one. There's no time for anyone else…"

_Wham_. Shepard's fist connected with Zaeed's face for the second time that day before she pitched him expertly to the floor.

Thank you, Mike Yamada.

"That's _not_ the way this works." The simple fact that she was reduced to these draconian methods disgusted her. It wasn't like her...and that was cause for concern.

Zaeed tried to get her to let him go, but she maintained the pin. He might be getting old, but he was still strong. He simply lacked flex and superior position.

"Whether you like it or not your ass is out the airlock as soon as we touch dirt. Meanwhile, consider yourself confined to quarters."

She slammed Zaeed's head into the floor, partially out of spite, partly to daze him so she could put some distance between them. She did not want him to get up swinging.

She stopped at the door. "Vido's dead: Garrus called in an airstrike." The door hissed closed behind her.

-J-

AN: Because even Shepard has bad days.


	107. Trigger

AN: Been awhile since we left this subplot! For anyone wanting to refresh their memories about it, previous chapters include "Snare," "Shuffle the Deck," "Bait," and "Wake Up."

Also, it's Memorial Day, so to all military personnel reading this: thank you for your service.

-J-

"Thank you for meeting with me, Commander," Sheffler said as he settled in the chair opposite Alenko.

"Glad to do it." It was ominous that Anderson had mentioned Sheffler and now, just when Alenko found himself getting complacent, he was here.

"This is a rather…delicate…situation." Sheffler looked around the almost empty café. "Has Commander Shepard contacted you?"

Alenko's insides clenched and he blessed Anderson for the advanced warning. "Commander Shepard is _dead_, in case you missed her funeral." And, if this _was_ such a delicate matter, they shouldn't be discussing it in the middle of a Presidium café.

"I recently learned your friend Shepard is still alive. I figured you'd be one of the first people she'd go to." The man's affectation of embarrassment at a misjudgment would have fooled Alenko if Alenko hadn't been forewarned.

"You've seen her? Talked with her?"

"If I had, why would I have come to you?" Sheffler returned.

"What do you want with Shepard?" Alenko _saw_ her go down…no, he saw the _Normandy _go down. Joker _said _she had to have died in space. _Was_ it possible she'd just gone off the grid?

Hot anger flickered in his stomach. Surely…surely she wouldn't. She _couldn't_…

…but she _was _a Spectre, and who knew what requirements that placed on her? He'd thought she'd be open with her ground team, but now…didn't that seem a little naïve? He'd stayed in the loop with Saren because he was already _in _the loop.

He began to have doubts, and began to wonder if Anderson didn't know more than he was telling. This was not a coincidence, first Anderson's new assignment for him, the mention of Sheffler, Sheffler himself…and in the background a shadow of Shepard.

"Since I've gone and spilled the beans, you might as well know: we think that Commander Shepard is working with the terrorist organization called Cerberus…and it is my job to run them—their cells and their agents—to earth and…" Sheffler trailed off as though not wanting to present a harsh truth to someone personally invested in the matter.

"She'd never do it. Dead women don't—" but Alenko's defense sounded hollow, even in his own ears.

"Cerberus seemed to think they brought her back," Sheffler began.

Alenko interrupted him sharply. "I've _never_ seen a successful Cerberus cell, and Shepard plowed through—"

"Well I _have_," Sheffler interrupted back, his tone making Alenko bristle. "When they screw up it's a mess and when they succeed it's _frightening. _I _saw_ the station that thought it had successfully rebuilt Commander Shepard. Now, they _may_ be laying a false trial, don't think I haven't considered that."

Alenko, somewhat chastened, settled down again, resentment aimed at several people roiling in his stomach. "But you don't believe it? You think it really is her?"

"It's a big boast. Too big to risk exposure for being just that. Whatever this…thing…is, it _looks_ like Shepard, but no one's gotten close enough to see if it _is_ her."

_He_, Alenko, might be able to, though…was that why Anderson wanted him on Horizon? A little, out of the way place Shepard could go to make contact without fear of being swooped down upon by the Alliance? A place where there was a familiar, trusted face…?

Not trusted enough, obviously. His lips thinned. The idea that he had not appreciated what being involved with a member of special warfare really _meant_ did not pierce his preoccupation. 'Loose lips sink ships.'

"Commander?" Sheffler prompted.

"What do you wantme to say?" Alenko demanded. "_You're_ the Cerberus expert."

"You knew Shepard."

"Well enough to know that this isn't possible."

Sheffler heaved a sigh and closing his eyes. "Believe me, plastic surgery and a trail of false evidence would be the best news I've had since Freedom's Progress."

So, he knew about that.

"In…what way?" Alenko asked cautiously. Was there a way to get Sheffler to trip, to let something slip that he might not intend to? That was Shepard's gift, getting people to talk whether they intended to or not…

Sheffler's eyes opened again, and it was as thought two searchlights suddenly switching on. "Commander, you did not achieve your post by being stupid."

Alenko grit his teeth.

"Commander Shepard is standing with accusations of treachery heaped up at her feet. My job in this organization," obviously meaning the Alliance, "is to hunt down Cerberus. If I have to take them apart piece by piece I will. And right now, I'm angling for her."

"You'll kill her." Not a question, but he wanted to hear Sheffler say it.

"I won't take joy in doing so, but it's probably better that way," Sheffler answered without flippancy, radiating the quiet steadiness of a stone. If he took a shot at Shepard, he would not miss.

"The hell it is."

"Commander," Sheffler continued, "it _is_ better if I do it. Otherwise she'll be captured, brought to some Alliance facility and interrogated. Whatever she tells them, even if she cooperates, even if she handed us Cerberus' head man and all his lieutenants, it'd never be enough. They would never believe her." Sheffler's tone took on a quiet intensity that made Alenko realize, in a very twisted way, Sheffler was trying to help Shepard.

"Once they're done with her, she'll be paraded around in chains, everything she ever did for the betterment of this galaxy will vanish under a layer of mud and shit, and she will take General Williams' place as the one the Alliance was ashamed of. Once all this is done, once the dust settles, she will be very quietly disposed of. And you're not naïve enough to think the Council would lift one finger to save her…"

It was probably all true, too. The bleak picture made Alenko close his eyes.

"If I do it, it will be one shot, and she'll never know it hit her. She can keep her good name."

"It's all she has left anyway," Alenko said, his words forced through tight lips.


End file.
